


The Dream of Having No Room

by rickyisms



Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AND THIS WAS BORN, Connor Whisk's love language is cat videos, Internalized Homophobia, Kent Parson is emotional, Kent Parson sliding into those DMs, M/M, Past Kent/Jack, Typical Hockey Violence, Unlikely Friendships, Whiskey and his ongoing sexuality crisis, Whiskey is emotionally distant, Whiskey/that lax boy, basically i saw a tumblr post that was like "Parson's in the convertible", briefly, i mess with the timeline a little bit so it makes sense, kent parson being GAY, not exactly canon but also nothing that wild, strangers to friends to idiots to lovers to idiot lovers, the NHL is not nice to gay men, the extremely boring twitter presences of hockey players, title is from a tragically hip song lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 110,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyisms/pseuds/rickyisms
Summary: Whiskey would like it to be made abundantly clear, that he did not befriend Kent Parson on purpose
Relationships: Connor "Whiskey" Whisk/Kent "Parse" Parson, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738009
Comments: 623
Kudos: 712





	1. I’m 20, washed up already

Whiskey would like it to be made abundantly clear, that he did not befriend Kent Parson on purpose. Parse’s not the kind of guy he ever saw himself hanging out with. That’d be like expecting to grab lunch with Crosby or hit up the Casino with Ovechkin. He’d already hung out with Jack Zimmerman, that filled his quota of awkward, stumbling, “nice to meet you, I had your poster hanging above my bed in high school kind of moments,” for at least the next year. 

Of course it didn’t help that he’d had a lame teenage crush on Jack for about as long as he could remember. When Bitty first brought him by the Haus, last season Whiskey felt his throat closing, head spinning. He was  _ not  _ going to let Bitty know that his boyfriend had kickstarted Whiskey’s own gay awakening when he scored an overtime goal for Rimouski in the second round of the QMJHL playoffs. Jack would have been 17. The way his normally stoic face cracked into a grin as he looked across the ice at his linemate, pointing at Kent Parson as he came crashing towards him, well that did it for an 11 year old Whiskey. Sexuality crisis, activated. 

He had to lock himself in the bathroom and re-learn the English language just to work up the courage to say “hi” to Jack. 

He was never actually into Kent, which was weird, all things considered. Whiskey was a Rimouski super fan until Kent and Jack’s draft year, but it was Jack who he hyper fixated on. It was Jack who had those piercing blue eyes that somehow cut through the screen of the laptop Whiskey was using to watch QMJHL games after begging his father to pay the 19.99 it would cost to unlock all the Rimouski games for a season.

That’s why he doesn’t exactly lose his mind when Kent Parson DMs him out of nowhere one day near the beginning of his second season at Samwell. 

Whiskey has twitter, he uses it to retweet the standings, he follows Bitty, sometimes if some reporter tweets out an article or a clip from one of his games, he’ll retweet that too. He posts “Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays” in December 25 and he never likes anything that has to do with politics. 

Whiskey wants to play in the NHL and they look at that shit. If a guy doesn’t have twitter they think it’s because he has something to hide, if it’s too crazy then that’s a strike against him. So Whiskey curates the most boring twitter presence he possibly can. He doesn’t check it more than once a month. He didn’t even realize Parser was following him, let alone knew who he was. 

He clicks on Bitty’s profile before he reads the message, thinking that maybe Bitty had posted a picture of Whiskey and the frogs ad Kent had found him that way, maybe Jack, whose twitter was as boring as Whiskey’s had retweeted a SMH highlight that Whiskey was tagged in. 

Nope. Neither. Kent Parson followed him of his own accord. Whiskey taps on the message notification. 

**@KentParse** Yo, they showed some highlights from your game on ESPN, last night

 **@KentParse** Your hands are sick.

Whiskey doesn’t know why he blushes but he does. The highlights on ESPN explain how Kent found him at least. He must be bored to even give enough of a shit to reach out to Whiskey. The fact that he noticed Whiskey’s hands is enough to embarrass him. He spends hours stickhandling, in his dorm, on the sidewalk, whenever he can get the extra ice time. For an NHL player to recognize that? It’s huge for Whiskey. He can’t not answer. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Thanks man. It was a good night. Bounces went my way. 

At the end of the day, Whiskey’s a boring hockey player,he gives the same answer he’d give a reporter from the Swallow when they ask “how the game went” for the 13th game in a row. Kent sees through it immediately.

**@KentParse** C’mon kid, you don’t have to give me your media answer. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Lol.

 **@ConnorWhisk10** Sorry force of habit. 

**@KentParse** I get it. It’s chill

 **@ConnorWhisk10** i didn’t think you’d spend a lot of time watching highlights. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Like you watch enough hockey as it is. 

**@KentParse** It was on in the hotel. And I’m kind of lame. Don’t do much other than hockey so I watch a lot of highlights. You guys could do it this year from what I’ve been seeing. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Lol, don’t jinx it

 **@ConnorWhisk10** And I think you’re pretty cool. Not lame or anything You’ve got that whole bad boy tattoos, snarky media personality thing going on. 

**@KentParse** I also have a cat who I regularly cancel plans to hang out with.

Whiskey’s heart is pounding in his chest. Kent Parson is just another hockey player. He’s Jack’s age, he knows Bitty. Whiskey’s met some of the Falconers, but talking to Parson like he’s just a regular guy and not one of the all time greats feels insane to Whiskey. 

They talk some more. Whiskey talks about his Samwell season, Kent lets him know how the Aces are doing. It’s nothing too personal, nothing Whiskey could run too a tabloid with and ruin Parser’s career, but it is familiar. Like he has a friend. 

Loathe as he is to admit it, Whiskey still needs those. He knows how the hockey team sees him, he’s heard them describe him as distant, stand-offish. He knows he’s all of these things but he can’t bring himself to change. He sees how open Bitty is, how warm, how that makes his game better. But Whiskey needs to shut those things down to play well. He needs a blank slate and a clear head the second he steps onto the ice. Bitty like vulnerability and emotions. He was a good captain for everybody else, but Whiskey liked to keep to himself.  He’s in the Haus when Parson messages him for the second time. He told Tango he’d help him with his economics homework. Whiskey’s not in ECON, obviously, he picked the major that would give him the most time to focus on hockey (communication, there’s practically no homework). Whiskey’s good at math though, he took business courses in high school before hockey took over. 

“Bro, I just don’t get it,”

Whiskey twirls his pencil in his hand, underlines the key statements once again, but Tango looks twice as confused. Bitty walks into the kitchen with an arm full of groceries, looks at the two boys sitting at the table. It is at that exact moment that Whiskey’s phone vibrates on the table. He sees the twitter notification, he sees Parson’s profile picture next. He scrambles to cover the phone with his hands. Bitty gives him a strange look and Tango starts in with the chirps immediately. 

“Who’s that, dude? What’s the big secret.”

Whiskey shook his head, slipped the phone in his pocket, “It’s probably just my mom, I didn’t want to distract you.”

He turns Tango’s attention back to the worksheet in front of them. Bitty hums, doing something with the fridge. Whiskey always does his best to ignore him. 

He answers Parson on the walk back to his dorm. He has his earbuds, he taps the notification the second he’s cleared the Haus’ front lawn. 

**@KentParse** Are you a cat person?

 **@KentParse** Because I just took the best picture of a cat that anyone’s ever taken of a cat and I think the whole of humankind needs to see it. 

Whiskey feels bad that the messages went unanswered for almost an hour. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** I’m not really a cat person but I’ll make an exception for yours. 

Parson sends the picture almost immediately. She’s a scrawny thing, grey, her fur is patchy in places but she has energy in her eyes. Whiskey smiles gently, seeing her sitting inside of Parson’s equipment bag, stuck under his helmet. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** That’s a good one. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Sorry I didn’t answer you right away. I was teaching my teammate the basics of tax law. 

**@KentParse** Sounds like a riot

 **@KentParse** It’s chill. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Yeah, didn’t want to be rude and text while tutoring. Our captain is big on the whole “southern politeness thing”

 **@KentParse** Bittle?

 **@KentParse** Yeah that tracks. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** You know him. 

**@KentParse** Kind of. Through Jack. We played together. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Yeah. I was watching. I was like 13 when you won the memorial

 **@KentParse** Damn. that makes me feel old as hell, Whisk. 

Whiskey actually laughs out loud. Doesn’t realize he’s been texting and walking for so long, he’s standing outside the front door of his building. He taps his student card to get in and takes the stairs up to his floor. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** 26? Absolutely ancient, bro. 

**@KentParse** 21? You’re basically an infant. 

Whiskey throws his backpack at his desk chair and flops down in his twin bed. He was one of the lucky ones, getting his own single dorm. He has to share a bathroom with the rest of the floor. Small sacrifices. Between the dorm bathroom and team showers, his flip flops get plenty of use. 

Parson has a game that night. Whiskey turns it on without really thinking about it. He doesn’t watch many NHL games these days, he watches even less of the Aces. They’re cool and all, but Whiskey was a Coyotes fan as a kid. As an adult who wants to go pro, it’s harder to be a fan. He watches games when he has the time, he keeps track of players whose game he likes, but beyond that, he can’t cheer the way he used to.

Whiskey should be reading a chapter from his textbook in preparation for his 9am tomorrow, but as usual, the hockey takes priority. Parson lines up for the opening faceoff. There’s a look of cool determination on his face as he looks up at the Canadiens centre. Whiskey imagines that Parson must have to do a lot of looking up. He’s not short for a person, but he is short for a hockey player. Whiskey loves faceoffs, he’d practice them for hours if he could find someone willing to help him. It’s where everything starts, and from the smirk on Parson’s face, it’s obvious he has the same instinct. 

Parson skates like a man who knows exactly where he wants to go, but doesn’t mind taking the long way there. He’s not lazy, he’s comfortable. Whiskey can see why he gets his reputation as a bit of a rat, he’s yappy, always smirking. He can see how that could get annoying. He watches one of the Canadiens argue with a referee about a penalty, Kent skates by and taps his wrist like he’s looking at a watch. Another time Whiskey sees a D man start yelling at Parson, thinking he should have taken a penalty for something he’d done a few seconds earlier. Parson just shrugs his shoulders and laughs. The Canadiens player keeps laying into him. Parson taps the back of his shinpads with his stick and the Canadien shoves him. Parson just laughs and the D man gets a roughing penalty. Definitely annoying, definitely effective. 

Parson’s good though. He’s not just a pain in the ass, he’s fast and he’s got vision. He scores on the ensuing powerplay, passes the puck to himself off the boards and shoots through someone else’s legs. It slides past the goalie and Parson celebrates the Aces first goal. 

Without thinking, Whiskey pulls out his phone. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Holy shit! What a goal!!!

He watches Kent’s teammates hug him at the board, and Parson looks almost bored with it, not satisfied yet _.  _ The Aces are still down by one. __

**@ConnorWhisk10** Obviously you won’t see this, like i can see you still on the ice lmao, but seriously, wow. Highlight reel stuff, man.

Whiskey tosses his phone at his bed during the second intermission. He has his feet up on his desk while he reads his textbook. He has the intermission panel muted. He sets down his book and turns the sound back on when he sees the Aces leaving the dressing room. He picks up his phone. Parson answered him. Whiskey imagines him sitting in the locker room. Drinking out of his water bottle, passively listening to his coach while he types out his message to Whiskey. 

**@KentParse** It wasn’t that pretty, I can do better

 **@KentParse** I’ll show you in the third ;)

Seriously. Whiskey doesn’t get it. Kent Parson took time in between periods of an actual National Hockey League game to acknowledge the existence of Whiskey. Not only that, but he’d pretty much just told him he’d score for him. 

Whiskey always watches hockey games intently, but every time Parson steps out onto the ice, Whiskey’s eyes follow him. 

“Parson seems to have found a new gear here in this third period,” the play by play announcer says as the camera follows Parson sending a pass to Swoops. A look of focus settles into his face when Swoops passes it back to him. Parson gets surrounded by the net, but Swoops is open, so he makes a pass that looks like a shot. The Canadiens goalie rushes to block Parse’s shot, leaving the net wide open for Swoops to tap it in. The camera zooms in on Swoops who points at Parson. Parson’s cheers are picked up by the in-arena mics. He didn’t cheer anywhere as loud for his own goal. 

There are five minutes left in the third when Parson trips with the puck on his stick. He’s in the neutral zone, manages to knock it into the attacking zone before he stands up and darts past the Canadiens' defense. 

“Parson on the breakaway! And Folks he’s just on fire in this third period and he goes to the backhand! Fakes right...Shoots left! Parson scores! And the Aces have the lead,”

Whiskey jumps up out of his chair, still staring at his laptop screen. He doesn’t make a sound because the walls are paper thin in the dorms, but he does throw his hands in the air and hop from side to side as he watches the camera go in tight on Parson’s face. 

Whiskey could be wrong, and he could be imagining things. 

But he swears,

Kent Parson fucking winks at him. 


	2. It's time to wake up from this

Whiskey doesn’t know if he’s allowed to call Parson his friend. He hasn’t even met him. But he’s the closest thing Whiskey’s got to one. Whiskey doesn’t have friends, Whiskey has teammates. 

It’s not like Whiskey tells Parson his deepest darkest secrets or anything, but they talk. Parson DMs him out of the blue to send him pictures of his cat. He asks Whiskey how his day was, sometimes a simple “sup” can lead to a back and forth that lasts hours.

**@ConnorWhisk10** In class

Whiskey replies one morning, his 9am lecture will forever remain his biggest regret of sophomore year. 

**@KentParse** Okay. Won’t distract you then.

 **@ConnorWhisk10** No please distract me. I’m sitting in the back of a travel and tourism class that I’m still not entirely sure I’m supposed to be in. 

**@KentParse** lmao, not a big travel guy?

 **@ConnorWhisk10** not a big tourism guy either. 

**@KentParse** I always feel like kind of a moron when some of the guys on the team who played college start talking about their classes. What even is a degree.

 **@ConnorWhisk10** I want to get out of here the second someone gives me a shot. 

**@KentParse** Don’t rush. It’s not that great. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Are you gonna tell me to value my education? Thanks dad!

 **@KentParse** Nah, just, get one that’s better than mine. No one teaches you how to pay taxes in the Q.

 **@ConnorWhisk10** hire an accountant. 

**@Kentparse** you’ve always got a solution, huh. 

Whiskey briefly tunes back into his lecture, he hides his phone behind his laptop. He has a word doc open that he has written precisely one sentence. 

“Planes are important” -professor who i pay 10 grand a semester.

**@ConnorWhisk10** you know it

 **@KentParse** you pumped for your game tonight. 

Whiskey hadn’t mentioned the game, which means Kent had to look it up. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** BU’s pretty good. It’ll be tough. 

**@KentParse** You’re pretty good yourself. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** I know I can do it. Still having trouble with the whole “we” part. 

**@KentParse** Do you not get along with them?

 **@ConnorWhisk10** Not like that. I just don’t know how to talk to them. 

**@KentParse** Sorry dude. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** It’s fine. Bitty and I play good together, I think he wants to be like… best friends or some shit. He made me pie the other day, which like… how do you even say thanks for that/

Parson has to leave for morning skate, Whiskey knows his schedule by then, so he wraps up the conversation. It’d gotten deeper than he intended it to. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** i still think we can kick ass tonight though. Gotta believe. Good luck at the skate :^)

Samwell gets their asses handed to them that night. Whiskey changes and showers faster than the rest of the team. Throws his clothes on and throws his equipment bag over his shoulder. He slips out of the dressing room before Bitty has a chance to tell Whiskey that they “did their best” and offer a reluctant smile. Whiskey wants to get angry. He carries his equipment all the way home. There’s a closet in the basement of his dorm that he’s allowed to keep it in. He throws the bag against the wall. 

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He sits on top of the bag in the dimly lit closet as he powers on his phone. 2 new messages from KentParse

**@KentParse** Man fuck BU. They didn’t deserve that second power play

 **@KentParse** Man FUCK BU. That guy totally slewfooted Tangredi and no call?

Whiskey shakes his head. His eyes feel heavy, like tears might fall, but he doesn’t let them come. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Good teams can overcome bad officiating. 

Kent answers immediately despite having sent the second message nearly an hor ago. 

**@KentParse** They kneecapped your entire game. You’re killer on the power play. You would’ve scored. 

**@KentParse** you probably don’t want to talk about it. Sorry

Whiskey imagines Kent, alone in his condo, probably sitting on an expensive couch with his cat, watching his game, shouting at the referees. It makes him feel warm in his cheeks. 

**@ConnorWhisk10** Not really. I’m just bummed out, I guess. 

**@KentParse** Do u want me to send u pictures of my cat?

 **@ConnorWhisk10** Actually yeah. 

**@KentParse** Do u have snapchat? It’s easier, y’know?

Whiskey sends him his snapchat username and about 12 seconds later his phone buzzes,  _ Parserbabey added you!  _

Whiskey adds him back

_ConnorWhiskey_ _Nice username, lol._

 _Parserbabey_ _i was 20, shut up._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _I’m only 21_

 _Parserbabey_ _don’t fuckin remind me. Do u want cat vids or not_

Parson doesn’t wait for Whiskey’s answer before he sends on. His cat’s sitting next to him on the couch, asleep. Her head moves slightly when Parson scratches the top of her head, nuzzling into Kent’s thigh. 

Whiskey doesn’t know how to describe it, other than weird, seeing Parson’s hand so close up, hearing him faintly breathing and laughing. 

_Parserbabey_ _sorry she’s not doing anything fun right now._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _she’s cute anyway._

Parson sends another video, the cat’s still asleep but she’s stretched all the way out, Kent’s hand’s in the frame scratching at her belly. There’s something about it that’s soothing, that takes Whiskey out of his head for a second. The cat’s purring, he hears Parson let out a little laugh. 

_Parserbabye_ _she’s on my lap and i want to go to bed but if i move i think that might be a war crime_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _the real war crime is you going to bed at 9 p.m._

 _Parserbabey_ _I like my beauty rest._

 _Parserbabey_ _it’s almost midnight over there, you should sleep too._

Whiskey never sleeps well the night after a game. If they win, he gets himself keyed up, can’t calm down. If they lose, he sulks, paces for hours, forces himself to think about how he could have fixed it. 

He can read the sincerity in Parson’s snap. He smiles to himself. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _I’m actually sitting in a storage closet rn, so i will not be sleeping immediately_

 _Parserbabey_ _Am I allowed to ask why_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _dunno. I put my equipment away and then sat down_

 _Parserbabey_ _weirdo_

 _Parserbabey_ _go to bed._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _okay, i’m on my way._

Whiskey gets up, turns off the light behind him. He sends Parson a snap of himself in the elevator mirror. He retakes it twice, normally he wouldn’t worry about how his hair looks, but tonight he does. He captions it “omw”

Parson sends a picture of himself in his bathroom mirror, his toothbrush is hanging out of his mouth and he’s holding up a peace sign. That fucking wink is back, looks perfectly non-chalant. “Good”. Parson’s wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, there’s a tattoo on his wrist, the start of a half sleeve by the looks of it. 

Whiskey taps his student card against his door and flicks on his light switch. He throws his jacket in his closet and finds a pair of sweatpants in his dresser. He puts on his SMH hoodie and heads to the bathroom, starts brushing his teeth, he sends Parser a photo of himself standing in front of the dorm mirror holding up a peace sign. The toothbrush doesn’t hang nonchalantly from his mouth and his hands don’t fall naturally like Parser’s do. He sends it anyway. 

When he’s shuffling back to his room, his phone lights up with another notification. It’s a video, he waits to close his door before he watches it. This time Parser’s in bed. He’s shirtless now. The camera pans up from his shoulders, Parser’s smirking as the camera focuses on his cat, sitting comfortably in his curls. Whiskey smiles as he turns off his light and climbs under his blankets. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _nice hat_

 _Parserbabey_ _thanks, it’s Gucci_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _wow it’s amazing what a good NHL contract can get you_

 _Parserbabey_ _lmao_

 _Parserbabey_ _go to sleep_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Night, Parse._

Whiskey plugs his phone in, sighs happily into his pillow as he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHISKEY'S LOVE LANGUAGE IS CAts


	3. Is anyone that's making anything new only breakin' something else.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey and the ongoing saga of pissing Bitty off

Whiskey starts hanging out with the Lax bros, much to the dismay of his entire team. He doesn’t get the hatred the teams have for each other, and besides, the lax bros are chill. The captain is in one of his seminars, he asked him to sign the attendance sheet for him so he could leave early in the first week and they’ve been friends ever since. 

He know it’s a joke for the hockey team to call them Chads, but his name actually is Chad. Chad L. because there were two of them on the team. Nursey was making fun of the lax team for that fact the other night, but so what? It seems like a law that every hockey team has to have at least two guys named Tyler. He’s definitely not the first guy named Connor to play.

The lax house has a nicer couch, and it’s quieter. Chad makes sure no one bugs him too much when he’s doing his homework. They have a sick backyard with a patio that someone actually takes care of. The best part is that no one’s ever doing anything ridiculously stupid at two in the afternoon, the reserve their frat boy shenanigans for parties. He’s walking back to the lax house with Chad after their seminar. They talk about class and they talk about their friends and the dumb shit they did on the weekend but not once in the past 20 minutes has Chad mentioned hockey. It’s nice. He goes there after class more often than not.

They bond over a shared love of extreme sports. 

“It’s fucking wild what some dudes will do strapped to a skateboard,” Chad says, “And dudettes actually too,” he says. 

‘I know!” Whiskey agrees, “I love that shit.”

There’s a snowboarding competition on one day in November. Chad only knows about it because he went to high school with someone competing. He invites Whiskey over to watch the stream. Whiskey agrees. 

The bound up the stairs past the other Chad and Greg who are sitting on the couch with their phones. 

“‘Sup!’ Chad shouts. It’s a greeting not a question. 

Chad sets his laptop open on his desk. The stream is free because who pays to watch extreme snowboarding?

Chad sits on his bed, Whiskey stands awkwardly by the door. 

“Bro you can sit,” chad says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey nods. 

So he sits on the bed, makes sure to leave enough space between him and Chad. 

Chad’s hot, so sue him. He doesn’t talk about the fact that he knows he likes men, but he’s not totally unaware of it. Chad’s got that whole frat bro with a backwards hat and a good heart thing going on and Whiskey doesn’t want to accidentally fuck around and catch feelings for a straight guy by accidentally touching his thigh. 

“Man this stuff is insane,” Whiskey says as a snowboarder goes hurtling down what looks like a ninety degree incline. 

“I know regular sports are crazy sometimes but these people aren’t right in the head,” Chad laughs. 

He has such a deep laugh. His adams apple bobs up and down. Chad turns. 

“Are you okay man?” Chad asks, “You’re staring.”

“Oh yeah, totally chill,” Whiskey says. 

Chad’s making some pretty intense eye contact. He inches closer to Whiskey. Whiskey shifts awkwardly away. Chad moves closer. 

Whiskey looks at Chad,he bites his lip. Whiskey is not going to make the first move, he knows because he’s forcing down every fibre of him that wants to. 

“Connor,” Chad whispers, “This doesn’t have to be weird.”

Whiskey can’t help himself, he leans in and crashes his lips into Chad’s, and Chad’s pushing back, opening his mouth to Whiskey. He groans, rests his hand just above Whiskey’s elbow and pulls him closer. Whiskey’s hips jerk up and Chad smile into the kiss. 

“Have you ever?” Chad asks. 

Whiskey nods. 

“Can I suck you off?” Chad asks. 

Whiskey nods again. 

Chad makes quick work of getting Whiskey out of his jeans. Neither one of them undresses fully. Whiskey’s dick springs free and Chad gets his mouth around him with the expertise of someone who’s done this before. Whiskey has to clamp his hand over his own mouth to stifle a moan. He knocks Chad’s hat out of the way to tug at his hair. Chad’s doing something with his tongue that tells Whiskey he won’t last much longer. 

“M’gonna,” he mutters. 

Chad just takes him farther into his mouth until Whiskey’s hitting the back of his throat. He groans and with that, he comes. He gets his hand on Chad, hands slipping below his waistband, it doesn’t take much to finish him off. 

They both blush as they return to their original positions, watching the snowboarders go hurtling down the mountain. 

They jerk each other off one more time before Whiskey goes back to his dorm. 

Whiskey’s dumb and sex happy when he closes his door, but then it hits him like a wave. Some kind of regret. He’d hooked up with his only friend so far. What if he ruined it? What if Chad never wanted to be his friend in the first place?

Whiskey doesn’t think he even like Chad like that. He’s hot, but he’s not the kind of guy Whiskey could date… if that’s even what Chad wants, if that’s even what he wants. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, sits on the edge of his bed. 

He opens his phone and there’s a video of Parser’s cat waiting for him. Parser’s hand reaches to turn off the faucet in his bathroom. The camera turns and Whiskey sees his cat. She’s somehow wrapped herself around the shower rod and refuses to come down. 

Whiskey laughs and taps for the next video. The cat is in the bath but she looks miserable. Parser’s holding her in place and he’s whispering to her. 

“Shhh, it’ll be over soon. This is what you get for sitting in your dinner.”

He shushes her some more. 

The final snap is just a picture of the cat wrapped in a brown towel sitting on Parser’s couch. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _bro I needed that today_

 _Parserbabey_ _Something wrong._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _nah. Just thinking a lot, y’know?_

 _Parserbabey_ _sounds like you lol_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _what’s that mean_

 _Parserbabey_ _You think a lot. Like every time we talk you’re thinking something through_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _university education coming in clutch_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _You know, you’ve never told me the cat’s name_

There’s a two minute break between messages

_Parserbabey_ _sorry, she got into the oven somehow, thank god it’s been broken since April_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _oh my god, she’s a menace._

 _Parserbabey_ _the name is so lame and I’m going to precede this with the fact that the people at the shelter suggested it and I couldn’t think of anything better but…_

 _Parserbabey_ _kit purrson_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _LMAO_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _that’s embarassing as hell man_

 _Parserbabey_ _I know!_

 _Parserbabey_ _I kind of just roll with being the cat guy now. She has an instagram_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Why have i never seen this_

 _Parserbabe_ _It’s private, I’ll sauce you a follow though._

**_@KittyPurrson has followed you_ **

Then two minutes later

**_@KittyPurrson has accepted your follow request_ **

It’s entirely picture of Kit. Most of them are of her napping, but a few are of her chasing after a laser pointer. Parser posted the picture of her in the towel from last night.

He goes to sleep easily after that. 

Chad asks if he wants to hang out the next day and Whiskey’s not sure if he means as friends, if they’re going to talk about what happened yesterday, or if they’re going to fuck. Whiskey puts a few condoms in his back pocket just to be safe. 

The lax house is presumably empty because Chad kisses him when he comes through the door. 

“I keep thinking about you,” he says. 

“Wow, that good?” Whiskey chirps. 

Chad nods. Whiskey doesn’t exactly  _ like  _ Chad, not like that anyway. But it’s college, and Whiskey likes having sex, and you don’t have to  _ like  _ everyone you have sex with in college. So Whiskey kisses him, lets Chad take him upstairs because,

“The bros would kill me if we got cum on the couch.”

It’s mid-November and they’ve been hooking up with some frequency. Much to Whiskey’s relief, they haven’t actually named anything. They’re just hooking up, no strings. The sex is good, it happens with some frequency and with the same guy, which is not something Whiskey can say he’s experienced before. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket while Chad’s kissing his way down his neck. He checks it, sees Bitty’s contact information and tosses it on Chad’s bed. 

‘Bitty,” he mutters in explanation, “Team dinner at the house.”

“So no marks?” Chad asks. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “I don’t care what those guys think.”

So Chad gets his hand in Whiskey’s pants and Whiskey pushes towards it, Chad bites down on his neck and Whiskey groans. 

“I was gonna ask you to fuck me, but Bittle’s just gotta go and ruin everything,” Whiskey whisper, he lets his breath hang hot. 

Chad groans, “Next time… unless you don’t mind being late.”

If Whiskey wasn’t rock hard before, he is now. 

“I could be convinced,” he whispers. 

It doesn’t take more than that for Chad to shove him face down against the bed. He pulls his pants the rest of the way of. Whiskey writhes as Chad inserts a lube covered finger. It burns because he’s going so fast, but Whiskey relaxes and opens up.

“Ready?” Chad asks. Whiskey nods furiously. 

He looks at Chad’s alarm clock, imagines the rest of the team sitting down for whatever Bitty made for dinner, wondering where he is. He imagines Bitty getting angry at him. Then Chad slides in and his head’s empty. He holds himself up with his elbows. Chad’s hand comes and wraps around Whiskey’s dick as he starts thrusting. 

Chad bites down on the back of his neck, sucking a mark Whiskey groans.

He feels Chad filling the condom, giving a few more weak thrusts before pulling out and tying the condom off. He finishes Whiskey with his mouth. 

Whiskey showers in Chad’s en suit before he puts his clothes back on. It’s an hour after team dinner was supposed to start. He picks up his phone to find five texts from Bittle

**Bittle:** **Where are you!**

 **Bittle:** **Whiskey are you alright?**

 **Bittle:** **Tango said to check the lax house, I resspect your decision to make your own friends but are they really the kind of people you want to hang out with?**

 **Bittle:** **If you didn’t want to come you could have just said so**

 **Bittle:** **I made pie for dessert**

Whiskey doesn’t answer any of them, he kisses Chad one last time and runs down the stairs. He doesn’t feel empty, in fact, he feels pretty good. But Chad doesn’t give him butterflies. He wonders if that’s a lame thing to be happy about, if it’s pussy shit to be afraid of your own feelings. 

He walks to the Haus and saunters in the front door like nothing’s wrong. He walks into the kitchen where Bitty’s serving pie. Bitty sees him and he forces a smile. 

“Glad you joined us Whiskey,” he says. 

Whiskey just wants him to get mad, to bench him, to shout, to call him irresponsible. But he doesn’t, because Bittle’s too nice, because Bittle’s trying too hard. 

“Nice hickey bro,” Tango whispers under his breath. 

Whiskey elbows him and laughs. Bitty doesn’t notice. 

“We’re going to watch the Falcs game if anyone wants to stick around,” Bitty says. 

Whiskey had intended on watching anyway. It was a Falcs/Aces game and those were always intense,newly blossoming friendship with Kent Parson aside. 

“I’ll stay,” Whiskey says. 

Bitty looks pleasantly surprised. His eyes light up and his cheeks turn pink and he says he’ll make nachos. And Whiskey hates that he tries to hard, he couldn’t tell you why it’s just so much all the time. 

He sits on the couch later that night, Bitty’s next to him. He sees him text Jack,  _ “good luck, honey!”  _ . They eye roll is involuntary. His phone vibrates. Parser. 

He angles his phone away from Bitty as he answers the snap. 

_Parserbabey_ _u watching_

Whiskey snaps a picture of the pre-game panel,  _ always _ , he captions the photo. 

_Parserbabey_ _are u with Bittle._

Whiskey doesn’t ask how Kent recognizes the Haus. Doesn’t think to. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _unfortunately_

 _Parserbabey_ _I’ll kick his boyfriend’s ass for u_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _the gesture is appreciated_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Just don’t do anything fucking stupid this time._

 _Parserbabey_ _don’t worry._

 _Parserbabey_ _lover, not a fighter._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _dude stop texting me, the game’s starting_

 _Parserbabey_ _they can’t start without me ;)_

Whiskey watches him walk down the hallway to the ice. He’s got the smirk. He fistbumps all of his teammates on his way. They switch to the falcs dressing room. Jack’s in his own head like he always is before games. His eyes pierce through everyone standing in front of him and Whiskey remembers why he had a crush on him in the first place. 

“Man fuck Kent Parson,” Nursey says. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“He’s such a rat,” Dex agrees. 

And he can take that and shove it for all Whiskey cares. Yeah, he’s a rat. That’s hockey. Mashkov goons it up plenty, and Jack’s not exactly a squeaky clean player. 

The faceoff is between Kent and Jack and Whiskey can’t help but smirk when Kent wins. The Aces are on a tear right now, they’ve won four of the last five and they’re about to be first in the Pacific. Whiskey’s good at keeping his face cold so none of the guys know that he’s actually secretly pulling for the Aces. 

Everyone’s miserable when they lose. Jack hangs his head as he walks down the tunnel. Kent’s cheering and pumping his fists as he leaves. 

“I can’t stand that guy,” Nursey says through gritted teeth. 

“Excessive celebration, motherfucker,” Tango spits at Parser’s pixelated image. 

“M’going to bed. Class in the morning,” Whiskey says. 

He picks up his backpack. Tango follows him back to the dorms. 

“You gonna tell me who you’re wheeling?” Tango says once they clear the porch. 

“No,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re annoying,” Tango rolls his eyes. 

Whiskey walks silently. Parser sends him a snap a few hours later from his bed. Kit’s sitting at the end of his bed on top of his comforter. Kent’s hand is in frame flipping her off. Whiskey sends a picture of the end of his bed, feet under the covers, he gives a thumbs up in the photo. 

_Parserbabey_ _at least i don’t have to sleep in a twin_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _we get it, you’re rich_

 _Parserbabey_ _as fuck. Rich as fuck._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _good game tonight btw_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _you pissed my team off_

 _Parserbabey_ _lemme guess_

 _Parserbabey_ _I’m a rat?_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _yup_

 _Parserbabey_ _It’s a skill, I got Mashkov to take a penalty, didn’t I?_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Games a game, no rule against it._

 _Parserbabey_ _As much as I love talking to you, it’s 2am over there. Go the fuck to sleep_

Whiskey goes to bed with the words, “I love talking to you,” playing in his head. 

  
  



	4. The tears we've carried through the years will change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey has an ex. Whiskey loves her. Not like that.

Bitty is a fan of “team bonding.” Whiskey could take it or leave it. Still, he eats breakfast with the team to keep him happy. He keeps his head down, headphones in, not listening to anything but hoping no one wants to talk to him. Bitty’s doing his mother hen thing, asking the frogs and waffles about their plans. Whiskey doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it, really, he doesn’t, he just doesn’t want Bitty to do it to him. He deals with his own shit. 

As he’s thinking about how good he is at being self sufficient, his phone buzzes. His heart drops. It’s not a snap from Parser like he hoped, it’s a real ass text. The contact photo comes up first, a girl wearing a floral printed dress with dark hair and tan skin. She’s smiling while Whiskey takes the photo. ‘Rach’ the name reads. 

Whiskey and Rachel had been friends since they were kids. Like, next door neighbours, swam naked in a kiddie pool since they were kids. When they got to high school, everyone just kind of assumed they would date, so they did. It was on again off again. They tried to be on for some of first year, but they broke things off officially over the summer. Whiskey was good at a lot of things, being a boyfriend was never one of them. He thought they’d broken up for real this time. 

**Rach:** I miss you. We should talk, I can come this weekend. 

Whiskey has absolutely no idea how to answer her, because he doesn’t want to get back together with her. He thought going to different colleges would finally put an end to it. But Whiskey’s also very bad at saying no. 

**Connor** yeah okay

 **Rach:** Can’t wait to see you. 

He puts his phone in his pocket and takes a deep breath. He eats the rest of his breakfast without tasting any of it. 

Rach shows up on Friday, Whiskey meets her at the bus terminal. She hugs him and smiles her signature “just got my braces off” smile. 

“I missed you, Connor,” she kisses his cheek and holds his hand as they get in the uber back to his dorm. 

“I figure you’ll come to the game tonight?” He asks. 

“Of course!” she says. 

Rach really is a sweet girl, and Whiskey’s always liked being friends with her. It’s the more than friends thing that gets him caught up sometimes. 

“Of course.”

He shows her around campus. They sit by the pond. The leaves are starting to fall and it’s cold, but Whiskey gives her his gloves. Their relationship always consisted of her talking and him listening. Today is no different. He loves her, he really does. He loves listening to her talk about how hard med school is and how bitchy her roommate is. He even loves when she leans against his shoulder and throws rocks into the water. They’re friends, and they’re good friends.

“Connor, I know you hate talking about your feelings and stuff… but…”

Whiskey sighs. 

“I know long distance is hard but we’ll both be home for the summer and I won’t ask for a decision right now… but just think about it?” 

She squeezes his hand and looks out at the icy pond. He just nods. 

They hang out until Whiskey has to get dressed for the game. Farmer makes sure she gets a good seat and she says goodbye. He hears them talking in hushed voices, about him no doubt. He shakes it out of his head. His phone lights up with a snap from Parser. Kit’s sitting on top of his flatscreen blocking the score of the basketball game he’s watching. He taps and finds another snap, this one’s of the pre-game interview for the SMH game. 

He wants to answer but he can’t think of anything cool or funny to say so he just leaves it, tosses his phone in his bag. 

Whiskey can’t shut his brain off tonight. He fucks up the faceoff and he fucks up on a breakaway and he fucks up when Rach looks at him and waves at him. He fucks up and takes a penalty in the second, while he’s sitting in the box, he throws his stick at the glass. He sees it coming but he’s still fuming mad when Coach benches him for the entirety of the third. 

He’s pissed, he’s upset. He’s furious when they lose. Bitty tells them they’ll “get it next time.” He wishes he’d get in Whiskey’s face, tell him just how badly he fucked them over. 

He puts on a calm face by the time he meets Rach outside the locker room. She slips her hand into his and they leave. Bitty watches, seeming like he’s about to interrupt and introduce himself but he lets them go. 

Whiskey sits on his bed, while she sits next to him. That’s the thing about Rach, she knows how to handle his moods after a loss. 

“M’gonna take a shower,” he says. 

She nods, “i’ll be here when you get back.”

He takes his phone with him. Parser sent him a message after the game. 

_Parserbabey_ _shit happens_

Is all it says. That’s all Whiskey really needs. 

_ConnorWhiskety_ _hate getting benched_

 _Parserbabey_ _Are you okay, you didn’t answer before the game_

 _Parserbabey_ _not like you have to, but you usually do_

Whiskey gets defensive. There is nothing in the entire world Whiskey hates than being asked if he’s okay.

_ConnorWhiskey_ _I’m fine. Busy_

 _Parserbabey_ _right. Well if you ever aren’t okay or whatever that’s chill too._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _lol, thanks._

Whiskey says goodnight to Parse before he goes back to his room. Rach is already under his covers. He offers to take the floor but she won’t let him. She nestles into his arm. 

“Have you thought about it?” She asks, sleepy. 

Connor sighs, “I don’t think I want to get back together.”

She nods, “I didn’t think so.” she doesn’t move though, not upset, “Can I ask you something Connor, just because we’re friends, not because we dated or anything.”

“Sure,” Whiskey says. 

“Are you gay.”

Connor would tense up and get defensive if it was anyone else that asked. But it’s Rach.And Rach has had every right to ask for a long time. The first time they broke up in junior year, it’s because she’d walked in on Whiskey and another boy in his bedroom. She’d walked out, told him they were breaking up because she “needed to focus on school,” somehow knew Whiskey wouldn’t be able to fess up right then and there. So he owes her an answer, at the least. 

“I dunno,” he admits. 

“How do you not?”

“I just don’t know what I am? Okay?”

She nods, understands. 

“I’m hooking up with someone and he’s a … well a dude.”

“Is it serious?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

They fall asleep watching an episode of Friends, her favourite show. He doesn’t get it. 

He’s groggy when he wakes up, arm asleep because she’s been laying on it all night. He moves slightly and she stirs a little.

“Mmm. Morning,” she says. 

“Hi.”

``Your phone was going crazy last night,” she says, “Groupchat?”

“Oh. Yeah, probably.”

Whiskey knows it had to have been Kent. The only other person who could have texted him that much is her.

“I’ll check later.”

“My bus comes at three. Do you want to watch the Mighty Ducks?”

Whiskey laughs. When he first told Rach he wanted to be a hockey player they were nine. Rach hadn’t seen many hockey games so she googled the phrase “hockey movies” ever since then, every time they didn’t know what else to do, that’s what they watched. 

“We have time for D2 on top of the first one,” he says. 

They throw off the covers and set Whiskey’s laptop at the end of the bed. He has a half eaten bag of Fritos under his bed, so they eat those while they watch the movie. 

In between the first and the second, Rach looks up at him. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about anything? You can trust me.”

“I know,” is all Whiskey says before he hits play. 

They watch the movie, Whiskey helps her collect her things and he walks her to the bus terminal. On the way off of campus he runs into Chad. 

“Yo! Whisk!” He shouts and jogs up to the pair. 

“Hey,” Whiskey smiles. 

“We’re all hanging out tonight if you wanna come,” he notices Rach, seemingly for the first time, “You can come too. We’re an equal opportunity household.”

Rach laughs, “I’d love to, Connor’s walking me to the bus.”

“Oh?”

“Spent the night,” she smiles. 

“Right, chill, chill,” he starts to walk away from Whiskey, “I’ll text you the addy bro!In case you forgot or something!”

Whiskey laughs as Chad nearly trips over the curb and waves goodbye. 

“Is he on the hockey team?”

Whiskey shakes his head, “Lacrosse. We hang out.”

“Is he the guy?”

“I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s a yes, Connor.”

“Shut up,” he knocks into her shoulder, she giggles. 

He sits with her until her bus comes. She hugs him before she gets on. 

“Don’t be a stranger, okay, Con?”

Whiskey nods. 

“Love you,” she says.

“Love you too,” he says easily. 

He walks from the bus stop straight to the lax house. Chad’s sitting on the couch wearing a hoodie and a pair of sweats. Whiskey opens the door without knocking. They’re those kind of friends now. 

“Yo!” Chad says, excited to see him. 

He pulls him into a bro hug. 

“The boys went to grab pizza if you want to just chill till then.”

“yeah,” Whiskey says.

He flops down onto the couch beside Chad.

“So uh I’ve been meaning to ask. That girl you were with today, is she like, your girlfriend of something?”

Whiskey’s shoulders tense up, he shakes his head. 

“It’s fine if she is. I know we’re not like serious or anything. If you’re not out or you’re bi, or like you’re doing that thing where a gay dude and a lesbian pretend to date or an open thing. I just wanna know.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay. Chill,” Chad says, “I’m out, just so you know. Like the boys know… not about you because that’d be weird, just that I like dudes.”

Whiskey can see the conversation quickly veering into emotional territory, so he shuts Chad up with his mouth. Chad leans in. 

“Okay, chill,” Chad says again. 

Whiskey moves closer, straddles Chad and… 

The door opens. 

Whiskey smells pepperoni and grease and there’s no way he’s moving before they see them. They both freeze. 

“Sup dudes!” the other Chad shouts before looking into the living room. 

“Woah, fuck,” someone else says. 

Whiskey’s turning bright red as other Chad walks past them to set the pizza on the table. It’s deadly silent until Whiskey speaks up. 

“I uhh, I can head out.”

Other Chad has a slice of pizza hanging out of his mouth. 

“Why?” 

“Uhhh, y’know.”

“I thought you were hanging out,” Other Chad says. 

Whiskey looks at Chad who’s sitting on the couch, he shrugs. 

“Oh, that?” Other Chad snorts, “Whatever bro. Literally I do not give a fuck. Just don’t fuck in the living room. Shit’s a common space.”

“Oh. Cool, sure,” Whiskey says and settles back into the couch. 

“You like cheese or pepperoni, Whisk? Carter wanted Hawaiian but ham on pineapple is no fucking go in this house,” Other Chad says. 

Whiskey picks up a slice of cheese and they turn on the pre-game panel for a Celtics vs. Bucks game. 

Bitty would have walked in and insisted Whiskey explain everything. He would have told him the Haus was a safe space. Whiskey would have had to sit there while he rambled about hockey culture and how people weren’t supportive of Jack at first, but they came around and how Whiskey could still play in the NHL if he wanted. 

Other Chad threw a slice of pizza at him and told him not to get grease stains on the throw pillows. It’s just nice. He doesn’t have to think. 

He checks his phone. Kent sent him pictures of Kit this morning that he never answered. He taps through them while Chad puts his head in Whiskey’s lap.

He sends Kent a snap of the TV. He gets a quick response. 

“Who you texting?” Chad asks. 

“Tango,” Whiskey doesn’t know why he feels like he should lie but he does. 

_Parserbabey_ _Is that a lacrosse stick?_

He looks up, sure enough, beside the TV, there’s a lacrosse stick leaned up against a potted plant.

_ConnorWhiskey_ _LMAO, yeah. I’m at the lax house_

 _Parserbabey_ _don’t they hate hockey players_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _not me i guess._

He thinks about telling Parser then and there that he’s been hooking up with one of them but he doesn’t know how he’d react. He’d said all the right things after Jack and Bitty kissed but Whiskey doesn’t want to chance losing the friendship he had built so tenuously. 

Kent doesn’t say anything else so Whiskey just assumes the conversation is over

He runs his fingers through Chad’s hair absentmindedly while they watch the game. Chad invites Whiskey to spend the night, and he does. Other Chad and the rest of the team don’t look twice when he walks up the stairs.

Whiskey and the Chads become almost inseparable and Whiskey can’t understand what the hockey bros have against the lax bros. They’re literally the same type of bro.

There is one problem though, Chad likes Whiskey a little more than Whiskey likes Chad. It’s not a big deal, but Whiskey worries sometimes that he’ll have to be the one to end whatever this is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from old ties and companions by Mandolin Orange
> 
> Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Whiskey is dumb


	5. I hope the world sees the same person that you've always been to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to figure out what's going on with Kent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from all your favourite bands by dawes, it's because kent loves swoops because swoops is a good friend

So Kent likes Whiskey. Fucking sue him. It’s lonely in his condo, surrounded by furniture he didn’t pick out and a cat he didn’t name. When Whiskey answers his snaps, it’s like the best part of his dumb fucking day. It’s Jack’s old team. He tells himself that doesn’t matter. But he wouldn’t have looked up from his phone if he hadn’t heard the commentator say “Samwell’s leading points scorer,” if they hadn’t said “on pace to break Jack Zimmerman’s record.”, if he hadn't tied it last year. He wouldn’t have noticed Whiskey if he wasn’t wearing red and white.

Swoops is the first guy to pick up on the fact that Kent’s always texting someone. He also notices that Kent’s keeping up with the NCAA standings more than usual.

They work out together on off days. Kent’s dripping in sweat. He’s got his Aces cap on backwards and he’s wearing an old Rimouski tee that he cut the sleeves off of. He stands in front of the mirrors and snaps a picture, pulling at his shirt to make his arms look a little bigger. 

“Who’s that for?” Swoops chirps from the ground where he’s sitting with his water bottle. 

“Mind your own,” Kent snaps back. 

He sends the snap to Whiskey. Yeah, it’s stupid to be sending a fucking thirst trap to a 21 year old college hockey player who Kent doesn’t know well enough to even know he’s got a chance with. But whatever. Bros send bros gym selfies all the time.

You miss a hundred per cent of the shots you never take and all that shit. 

Swoops pries some more.

“You’ve never gotten your phone out during a game once, and now you’re texting every intermission?’

“So what if I have a friend?”

“A friend who can’t wait for an answer?”

“Swoops,” Kent says in a warning tone. 

“Parse,” Swoops mocks his tone, “I’m just trying to be a friend. You haven’t really…”

“Haven’t what, Swoops?” He snaps. 

Swoops stands up, “You haven’t liked anybody since Jack.” Swoops out and says it and Kent turns red. Embarrassment, anger. 

The fact that he let Jack get so inside his head. That he let himself hope for something that could never happen. That he and Jack did so many things to each other that they had to apologize for later… and now he’s crushing on a college kid in a different time zone.

Way to go Parser, genius move. Really. 

“I’m not 18 anymore, Swoops.”

“You and me both,” he laughs, “Just don’t pine for so long that I have to buy you more ice cream.”

“One time, Swoops,” Kent smirks. 

“One time too many, Parser baby,’

His phone vibrates and it’s Whiskey. He sends him a picture of himself in the gym, wearing his Samwell tank, headphones in, face cold. 

It’s Kent’s luck that Swoops sees the snap. 

“Samwell? Really?” Swoops says, holding back laughter. 

“Shut the fuck up, Swoops,” Kent says. 

“Man your life is a fucking mess.”

“Don’t I fucking know it,” Kent says, still looking down at the image of Whiskey. Like fuck. 

“Is he the kid whose highlights you rewound like four times when they were on ESPN last night.”

And fuck, Swoops is smart. He’ll figure it out whether Kent tells him or not, so he fesses up while they’re in the car on the way back to Swoops’ place. His girlfriend invited Kent for dinner. 

“So like…” Kent says, “His name’s Connor.”

“And?” Swoops says. 

“And he plays hockey. For Samwell. I kind of knew the team because of Jack, because of Bittle so I keep up with the team a little bit. We’ve never uh… actually met in person.”

“So how’d you start talking.”

“I slid into his DMs,” Kent admits. 

Swoops snorts, “Parser, you dirty dog.”

“Fuck, it’s not like that.”

“What’s it like then.”

“We talk. Like all the time. I don’t know if he likes me I don’t even know if he likes guys. I just know I like him. I like watching him play hockey because he gets that look in his eye where he’d run through a wall if someone told him that would help him win. And he doesn’t talk about how he feels or anything deep but I can tell he’s sweet,” Kent shrugs. 

“Can I say something that might piss you off,” Swoops taps his finger against the steering wheel. 

“He sounds like Jack.”

“Asshole.”

‘You’ve got a type.”

“So do you. All your girlfriends look like the same fuckin Instagram model.”

“My type is blondes. Your type is emotionally unavailable hockey robots.”

“Fuck off,” Kent says, he pouts for a little bit, but he knows Swoops means well. 

He’s smiling by the time their in his apartment. He opens a message from Whiskey. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _So gym selfies and cat pics?_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _That’s our thing._

Kent’s throat closes up at the idea of them having a thing. Shakes his head. Knows Whiskey must have meant it as a joke. 

_Parserbabey_ _lol, I don’t do much else_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _hockey players man. No hobbies, I’m tellin’ ya_

 _Parserbabey_ _Like you’re much better._

“Who’s Ken texting,” Swoops’ girlfriend’s lilting voice comes from the kitchen

“Parser’s in loooove,” Swoops teases. 

Kelli, Swoops’ lady, hands him a glass of wine. 

‘I love that for you,” she ruffles his cowlick and smiles. 

Kelli’s been around for almost a year, and Kent can understand why.

“Swoops thinks I’m still hung up on the ex.”

“The secret one neither of you will name?’ Kelli asks. 

Kent nods, “he’s wrong though.”

“I never said you were hung up on him. I said the new guy seems just like him.”

“Baby, those are basically the same thing,” Kelli kisses Swoops and then thwacks him in the back of the head. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _i was trying to come up with a good comeback, but yeah. I don’t do anything._

 _Parserbabey_ _how was practice?_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Fine. Bittle is infuriatingly polite. Sometimes I just want him to yell at me, y’know._

Kent does know. The last thing he wants when he fucks up is for someone to tell him that it’s okay and he’ll “get em next time”

_Parserbabey_ _yeah that sounds like a pain in the ass._

Whiskey’s on pace to tie Jack’s goals record. He won’t tell Swoops that because that’s just more material for his “Whiskey is actually Jack” theory. Kent doesn’t mention it. He knows he can get in his own head about numbers, wonders if Whiskey might be the same. 

_Parserbabey_ _bro you’re scoring like nuts. You’ll be fine no matter what Bitty does._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _hope so._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _thanks._

Kent tells Whiskey to do his homework, because he knows he falls behind sometimes, and he knows that it stresses him out. He also knows that Whiskey would listen to him. Kelli has to snap to get his attention more than a couple times at dinner as they try to carry on a onversation and Kent keeps drifting off somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school? cancelled  
> sports? postponed  
> my desire to write about Kent Parson and Connor Whisk? ever present


	6. I know I shouldn't make my friends all worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey doesn't like showing himself to people. Jungle juice helps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from good news by Julien Baker

Whiskey does the bare minimum for his readings and then picks something to wear to Chad’s party. Chad texted him on a Saturday morning to invite him to a lax party. Whiskey agrees to come over early to help for the setup, and by setup, which means coming over a few hours early to get drunk. 

Connor’s standing on top of the kitchen table when Whiskey walks in the front door. There’s a metal trash can on the floor and two of the other lax bros are hanging up a Samwell flag, Chad’s directing them.

“Yo!” He greets whiskey. 

Whiskey throws his bag on the kitchen table. 

Chad bro-hugs Whiskey. 

“Jungle juice time motherfuckers!” he pulls Whiskey onto the kitchen table and hands him a bottle of Hawaiian punch. 

“Start pouring bro!”

They fill the trash can halfway with punch, throw in orange slices, a packet of sour patch kids. The lax bros join in as they pour the contents of every single bottle of clear alcohol in the house into the trash can. 

“Let that shit stew, and we’ll party hard.”

Chad jumps down from the table. 

“You wanna go upstairs?” He asks Connor. 

“Chill,” Connor says. 

Chad has a bottle of vodka under his bed that he and Whiskey pass back and forth. They make out, because that’s pretty much all they do when they’re together.

The other bros turn on the stereo a few minutes later so Whiskey doesn’t mind when Chad lets out a moan. He really doesn’t think about coming out too much, like it’s just not a big deal, never really has been. He keeps telling himself he’s a private guy, that he was with Rach in high school so no one ever asked. 

Chad lets Whiskey borrow a pair of sweatpants because his are kind of ruined by now. It has the samwell lacrosse logo on the thigh, two sticks, crossed, with SML written beneath it, Whiskey doesn’t think anyone will ask, and if they do he’s fine to tell them it’s none of their fucking business. 

“Let’s get some fucking jungle juice in you, motherfucker,” Chad says as they take the stairs. 

Chad grabs him by the hand and Whiskey doesn’t really mind as he pulls him into the basement where all the bad decisions are being made. It’s crowded and there’s not a single person here who gives a fuck that he’s on the hockey team. 

When he was in Arizona, playing hockey made him weird, here it made him a god, here people brought signs to his games and told him he was on ESPN. But surrounded by the lax team, and all their friends who actively avoided the hockey team, it feels different. He lets Chad drape his arm around him and no one seems to care. He scoops a red solo cup of jungle juice from the trash can, someone’s gotten out the lacrosse sticks and their throwing eggs across the basement, catching them and cradling them in the pocket. .

Whiskey talks to Chad and he talks to Chad’s friends and this is so much better than a kegster because he bothered to get to know these people. 

Chad puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder when he tries to talk to him. He hears someone say that some hockey rookies showed up, but Whiskey ignores them in favour of listening to Chad drunkenly try to explain the ending of  _ Lost  _ and why it actually did “totally make sense”. Whiskey nods along in all the right places. 

Everyone dances and Whiskey dances with Chad and they dare each other to do dumb shit, and when Whiskey’s got enough liquor in his stomach, he stands with his back against the wall and Chad kisses him. Whiskey’s hands settle, one of them on his shoulder grasping at the fabric, the other gently pressed up against his back. Chad reaches up to cup his face and it’s tender in a new way, and it just feels  _ nice _ . 

Whiskey’s eyes are closed and when he opens them he’s looking at Chad, Chad’s thumb rubs over Whiskey’s jaw and red alert. That’s tender as hell… and the way Chad’s looking at him is a lot more than just fuckbuddies. 

And Bitty… 

Bitty’s staring at him, and staring at Chad. Whiskey puts his hand on Chad’s chest, and slips out of his grasp. He doesn’t explain why he’s leaving, he just does. He bounds up the stairs and out of the house, pulling his SMH hoodie over his head. Bitty’s behind him, the other first years are in front of him. Bitty manages to grab his arm. 

“It’s okay, I didn’t, or. I’m not!” Bitty stammers but Whiskey writhes out of his grip before he can say anything else. Whiskey runs. He doesn’t know where he’s running to but he just goes. His phone vibrates with a call from Bitty. A text from Tango. Chad asks him what happened. There’s a park, he steps onto the gravel path. Sits underneath of the slide and pulls his hoodie around his shoulders. He doesn’t know what to do. Or think, or feel or say. 

He opens snapchat. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ hey.

 _Parserbaby_ _sup. U good_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Not really actually._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _It’s fine. Don’t worry. It’s good_

 _Parserbabey_ _When i said if you ever needed to talk… i meant it_

Whiskey takes a deep breath. He’s bad at asking for help but he’s doing it.

_ConnorWhiskey_ _Can I call you?_

 _Parserbabey_ _yeah!_

Parson sends him his phone number and Whiskey dials it right away. Parson picks up before the first ring. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Whiskey’s breathing heavy but he manages out a choked, “Hi.”

“I uh. I dunno why I decided to text you.”

“We’re friends,” Parson says, “Are you okay? What happened.”

“It’s uh… it’s a long story.’

“I’ve got time,” Parson says. He’s more patient as a person than a hockey player, Whiskey notices. 

“I went to a party tonight and I was in the basement and I was with this guy and we’ve been hooking up and shit and so I kissed him because it’s not like a big deal to anyone in the lax house that we hook up and Bitty fucking saw and I flipped shit. So now I’m here.” It all tumbles out of his mouth at once because he doesn’t know how else to get it out.

Whiskey hears Kent sigh into the phone. 

“Fuck dude. That’s heavy.”

“Tell me about it. My life’s been a mess this past week and I’m sorry for lowkey ghosting you I just didn’t know how to talk without dumping everything on you,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s okay,” Kent says softly. 

“And now Bitty’s gonna do the whole southern hospitality thing and be so polite about it and I just can’t handle one more discussion about how Samwell is a safe space and it’s accepting because it is sometimes but sometimes it’s not and I don’t want Bitty to think that Chad’s my boyfriend or that I’m in love or anything but holy shit I don’t even know if I like him. Like I was already kind of freaking out because I thought he was looking at me like he liked me a lot more than I liked him and then Bitty showed up and I just bolted.”

“Dude,” Kent lets out a low whistle

“Oh fuck,” Whiskey says, “I didn’t mean to tell you my life story. Or that I think I’m gay… well that’s complicated too. But like. Functionally. Dudes. Y’know?”

Kent just laughs into the receiver. 

“I uh. Maybe it feels like I’ve been lying to you, I know sometimes people react like that and I really didn’t mean to…”

Kent laughs harder. 

“Are you laughing because you don’t want to be friends?”

“No,” Kent says, “I’m not mad at you and I don’t think you lied to me.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I know how you feel. Not like how straight people are always saying they can imagine how you feel. I like  _ know  _ how you feel. Gay. I’m that. I’m gay.”

Whiskey gets the impression that Parson doesn’t get to say that outloud very often. 

“Shit?’ Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah,” Parson answers, “Just don’t call TMZ or anything,” he laughs. 

“I couldn’t do that to you,” Whiskey says. The concept of humour just out of reach. 

“Oh. Thanks man,” Parson says, “Are you safe?”

“What do you mean?” Whiskey says. 

“Like where are you? You’re not gonna like… I dunno run into traffic or some shit, right?”

Whiskey shakes his head, remembers Parson can’t see him,”I’m at this park. I’ve never really been here but like… it’s nice,” Whiskey takes a deep breath, he hears Parson breathe with him. He realizes that Parson’s been breathing in and out, slowly but surely this whole time and without realizing it, he’s matched him. 

They breathe together, in and out, just like that, on the phone. Whiskey would feel like an idiot doing this with anyone else. He’d hang up on Rach, he’d run from Bitty and he’d shut down on Chad.

Then Whiskey feels tears, the tears that haven’t come in so long, he hasn’t cried since he broke his foot in high school. But he does tonight. 

“Connor are you…”

“Crying. Yeah,” Whiskey says.

He braces for a chirp that never comes. 

“It’s okay,” Parson says, voice low. 

And Whiskey just lets go. It’s a full, sniffling, snot running down his face struggling for air kind of cry and Kent’s just there, whispering at him that it’s okay. Telling him that Bitty has no right to ask him any questions, that it’s not fair this is different than if Bitty caught him with a women’s lax player but that it is and that fucking sucks. 

And Whiskey just cries harder, because there’s someone there that’s not telling him to shut up, or man up, or grow a pair. 

“Dude. If I was there I’d have my hand on your shoulder.”

Whiskey lets out another ragged sob because all he wants is someone’s hand on his shoulder. Someone holding him to make sure he doesn’t start running and never stop. And he can’t think of anyone he’d let do that in the entire world. Anyone other than Kent. 

“Thank you,” Whiskey chokes out, “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Nah. We’re friends,” Parson says. 

Whiskey’s chest seizes and he feels the way he feels like two days before a a big game. Nervous and excited and like his stomach exists somewhere between his ass and his kneecaps. 

“Fuck,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s okay,” Kent repeats. 

“I just. I feel like it’s my fault. Like I was reckless, like if I didn’t want anyone to see I shouldn’t have kissed him. But fuck… I didn’t mind other people seeing. It was Bittle.”

Whiskey’s thinking, and Kent’s silent. 

“It’s like… Bitty and Jack, they’re the face of this thing. Gay dudes who play hockey and they’re in love and shit and I’m just hooking up with this guy. It’s not the same. Like… I don’t want to be the face of anything if I don’t even know what’s going on in my own head.”

“That makes sense,” Whiskey.

“I’m really tired, Parse,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah. You’re slurring.”

“That might have more to do with the uh… jungle juice.”

“You’re such a frat boy.”

"Definitionally. Yes."

Parson makes Whiskey stay on the phone until he gets back to his dorm. He narrates the walk, naming a squirrel that he sees. Asking Kent if he should take the traffic cone outside the building inside the building. 

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

“I dunno. Drunk guys like cones.”

Kent laughs.

He tells Whiskey about the new cat food he had to buy for Kit because she won’t eat dry food anymore. Whiskey unlocks his dorm room to the sound of Kit meowing into the phone and Kent chuckling. 

Whiskey throws his pants on the floor and climbs into bed in his boxers. 

“I’m in bed now,” he says, whispering. 

“Good,” Kent says, gentle, as if he’s afraid to wake someone up. 

“Thank you,” Whiskey says. 

“Any time,” Kent stifles a yawn. 

“I’m sorry if I kept you up.”

“What are friends for?”

“I’m gonna go to sleep now.”

Whiskey drops the phone on his pillow but he doesn’t hang up. 

Somewhere in Las Vegas, Kent Parson is sitting alone in his bedroom, his cat is curled up on his empty pillow completely unaware of the ache in his owner’s heart. Whiskey. Damn. So many things race through his mind, but most of all, it’s the fact that he can hear Whiskey breathing. Still there, still alive, still holding it together. And Kent would be lying if he said he still didn’t have nightmares about the sudden deaths of the people he loves, but Whiskey is breathing. Kent doesn’t hang up until he’s about to fall asleep. 

Well Kent Parson, you’ve done it again. You’ve fallen for the absolute last person you should be falling for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow my tumblr- omg-whiskey
> 
> feedback is always appreciated


	7. Surprises in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aces and the Falcs play each other six times in the regular season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from soft stud by black belt eagle scout

Whiskey wakes up the next morning and his mouth tastes like sandpaper. He reaches for the water bottle that he always keeps under his bed. There’s about a sip left, which is nowhere near enough to get rid of his cotton mouth. He rolls over, sees his phone on his pillow. He tries to turn it on but it’s dead. He rolls his eyes at himself and plugs it in. 

He shuffles to the sink in the corner of the room and fills his water bottle. He downs half of it and re-fills it. He stumbles as he remembers the events of last night. 

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, as it all comes rushing back. 

His phone powers on and the first thing he does is message Parson. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _hey man, sorry about last night_

Kent’s bitmoji pops up with three little dots above its head almost immediately. 

_Parserbabey_ _it’s fine. Shit went down, what else are friends for_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Still_

 _Parserbabey_ _man, if you still need to talk about it now that you’re sober, i’m here._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _No thanks._

 _Parserbabey_ _U sure_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Yeah im good._

Whiskey is, of course, pretty far from good. But without the jungle juice coursing through his veins, he realizes how dumb he feels unloading his feelings on anyone, even if it is Parson. 

_Parserbabey_ _call anytime_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _I appreciate it, but I don’t think i’ll need it_

 _Parserbabey_ _yeah okay :/_

Whiskey tries not to read too deeply into Parson’s choice of emoticons as he sleeps off the rest of his hangover. 

Parson sends him a video of Kit that he watches while he’s eating scrambled eggs on toast, Monday morning. Kit’s sitting on top of Parson’s laundry basket, a pair of black calvin kleins are on her head and Kent’s talking like he’s trying to reason with her like a person. 

“Come on Kit. I wear clothes, not you,” he says. His voice is husky but gentle. 

Whiskey smiles. The next snap he receives is of Kit being lured out of the basket with a piece of salmon.

_ConorWhiskey_ _:0 im starting to think she does this on purpose._

 _Parserbabey_ _oh im certain of it_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _You’re spoiling her_

 _Parserbabey_ _I’ve got no one else to spoil, I might as well treat my cat well_

_ “I wish I was that cat,”  _ Whiskey finds himself thinking. He shakes his head, because that’s a weird fucking thing to think. Whiskey gets up to use the toaster. And before he can run, Bitty’s standing beside him, stammering something that Whiskey doesn’t actually listen to. His toast pops up and he walks away without letting Bitty say something unreasonably stupid. 

He sits at his table, toast, hard boiled eggs, two oranges. He peels one of the oranges in one long curl, tears chunks off the second. He has to be in class by ten, gives him plenty of time to sit in the dining hall. Textbook open but not actually reading. 

The thing is, he doesn’t hate Bitty. He gets it, he understands who Bitty is, what Bitty wants. He doesn’t mind Bitty and Jack, he’s happy for them. Happy that his childhood hero and hockey captain have something that makes them happy. He’s even happy that the NHL has an out player now, he didn’t think that was something that would ever happen as a kid. 

Bitty’s the kind of guy who believes in something bigger than himself. More than just hockey. Whiskey’s not that kind of guy. Bitty gets fan-mail from kids who look up to the first out NCAA hockey captain, Whiskey thinks he’d shrivel up and die if that were him. It’s important that those kids have someone to look up to, Whiskey just hates the idea that if he ever came out, he’d be come a role model over night. He wants to fuck up and lose and win and he wants it to just be on him. 

He looks at Jack sometimes and he wonders how the reserved 17 year old he watched through laptop screens grew up to love Bitty. Then he sees them together and it makes sense. It just  _ works. _ Jack does stuff for charity, and he gives a good quote about diversity in the NHL every now and then, but Whiskey can tell, it was love that pulled Jack out of the closet. You don’t win a Stanley Cup and think to scream “I’m Gay!” but you might think to scream about how much you love someone, you might kiss him on the ice. Whiskey wonders what that might be like. 

He’s thought about what it’d be like to lift the cup before. Never about who he’d want to turn around and kiss. Rach? He shakes his head to himself. He wants her there, no doubt. But that’s not the way he loves her. He can picture himself hugging her and picking her up and screaming about how far they’ve come. But  _ love  _ love? Not her. He thinks about Jack, and that’s stupid. The man he knows now is not the same man his 11 year old brain manufactured to have a crush on. Maybe the dream version of Jack would be nice. Then there’s Chad. 

Fucking Chad. Chad deserves so much better than Whiskey, he thinks about it every time their together and Chad looks at him like  _ that.  _ Every time Whiskey reminds him that they’re nothing serious and Chad says “chill.” Chad’s sweet, and he’s funny and they have chemistry. But it’s not love. Not to Whiskey. 

Then he’s thinking about Parser, because, fuck, that guy’s lifted it. Whiskey watched a video of Parser’s cup win one night when he couldn’t get to sleep. He thinks about how the commissioner handed it to him, because he had the C on his shoulder and that’s just how it works. He thinks about how Kent looked over at Jeff Troy immediately, pressed his lips to the cup and handed it off to him. He thinks about how Kent was alone on the ice, Troy’s girlfriend flanked him, guys had kids and wives and Kent was standing there just watching it all. 

Whiskey knows why now. Jack wasn’t the first gay dude to win a Stanley Cup, but he was the first one in love enough to tell anyone about it. That was the 11/12 season, and rumour has it Kent showed up at Samwell that fall, not for the last time, but the only time he showed up with a cup to his name. 

Whiskey thinks about how he won’t get to be Kent or Jack, because he’s 21, and he’s from Arizona… and that stuff that kept him out of the draft when he was 18. And then he’s gone, completely drifting off into space, headphones in but no music playing.

Once upon a time there was a hockey player from a place without ice. A place surrounded by canyon walls and pine forests. A place where the sun was always hot but the wind was always there to dry the sweat off of his brow. He was a boy with Mexican grandparents and legs that were too long and a head that was never in the right place at the right time. But he had a heart for the NHL. And so the boy found ice. He found ice rinks in cities that he had to take buses to, coaches who let his father rent ice for half price in the summer. He had a paper route and a bike, he saved his money, and by the fall he had roller skates. He played baseball, and he played lacrosse for a few summers. But it was always hockey, his heart was always in the NHL. The boy got bigger, and his legs stayed long but they got strong. 

And the girl who he loved as a sister, who loved him as something more, she told him about her uncle who could coach. He moved in with the girl and got the boy onto the ice every weekend. And they were fast friends, the boy and the girl’s uncle. The three of them drove around the country, the boy signed up for weekend tournaments, the last addition to roster all over the country. They went to Minnesota, crossed the border into Ottawa, chasing the game. But he never left the place with no ice. He always had the NHL in his heart. The uncle found him an agent and the scouts started to notice. 

And then the coach died. Smashing his car through the guardrail, careening into a lake. The boy and his best friend were in a hotel room, a packet of skittles on the bowl between them, waiting for the coach to come for them. He never did. The boy opened the door to a police officer, and the girl screamed and screamed, sobbing on the floor until the boy’s mother came to take them home. 

The boy locked his door for a year. His hockey skates got rusty, he forgot how to tape a stick. Forgot where his heart has gone. 

“Whiskey!” Chowder’s standing in front of him, Whiskey’s no longer in his bedroom in the place with no ice, he’s sitting at the table in the Samwell dining hall. Chowder and Farmer are standing in front of them. 

“Dude!” Chowder says, “Class, let’s go,”

“Oh fuck. Right.” Whiskey throws his orange peels into the compost bin, puts his plate on the conveyor belt that will take it to the kitchen. 

“You look wiry,” Farmer observes. 

Whiskey waves her off.

“Fine,” he says. 

Farmer and Chowder took an introductory communications lecture as an elective, so now they sit together.

He gets a picture from Kent in the middle of lecture. He’s been trying to get better about staying off his phone during classes, so he manages to wait for the break to check. He regrets it immediately. There’s a picture of Kent, standing in front of a mirror, it’s not his own, Whiskey’s pretty sure. There’s blood dripping down his face, from a cut under his eye. 

_ You should see the other guy,  _ he’s captioned it. Underneath the first caption  _ , the other guy’s a hockey puck btw _

Whiskey starts typing immediately. The snap was sent 20 minutes ago.

_ConnorWhiskey_ _holy shit, u ok???_

 _Parserbabey_ _Lmao, yeah. All good._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _What happened?_

 _Parserbabey_ _Swoops has one hell of a one timer_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _what were you doing standing in front of it_

 _Parserbabey_ _lame as hell, I tripped over my own feet and slid in the way of it_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Nothing’s broken though, right?_

 _Parserbabey_ _u worried about me ;)_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _fuck off_

 _Parserbabey_ _I’m good. Doc checked me out, i am un-broken and un-concussed_

Relief floods Whiskey. He lets go of a breath, his shoulders un-hunch. He doesn’t even realize the professor’s started talking again. The professor shoots him a look as he blatantly texts. He feels his cheeks turning hot, stands up and walks up the stairs out of the lecture hall. He hangs his head, looks apologetic, but he darts out the door. Chowder and Farmer don’t follow him, but they do sit with their eyebrows raised. He swings around the corner and stares down at his phone.

_ConnorWhiskey_ _no time off, right?_

 _Parserbabey_ _lol. Nah. His shot’s not *that* hard_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Okay. Chill. Great. I’m glad you’re good._

He takes a deep breath. Kent’s bitmoji is typing. 

_Parserbabey_ _how’s your hangover going_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _bounced right back. Can’t even tell._

 _Parserbabey_ _must be nice to be 21_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _It’s a pretty sweet gig, I’ll admit._

Except for the fact that the weight of every single one of his feelings feels like it’s going to suffocate him unless he finds some way to bury them. 

_Parserbabey_ _man, after the cup I drank for 24 hours STRAIGHT_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _I saw the pictures, they were all over ESPN_

 _Parserbabey_ _you’re allowed to go batshit after a cup_

 _Parserbabey_ _It’s like written into the CBA_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _lmao_

 _Parserbabey_ _now i just pretty much don’t drink. Next cup i’ll drink one Natty lite and pass out in a fountain._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _oh, you’re already planning for a next cup?_

 _Parserbabey_ _you’ve always gotta be planning for the next cup._

 _Parserbabey_ _hold up. Shouldn’t you be in class_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _lmao._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _yeah, I left, nothing interesting happening there._

 _Parserbabey_ _are you catching senioritis sophomore year?_

Whiskey doesn’t like class. Everyone’s packed into the hall, he can hear every sneeze, the sound of 200 kids all viciously pounding the keys on their macbooks. The professor always takes at least 15 minutes to plug his microphone in. Seminars aren’t much better, sitting in a small room with not nearly enough chairs, a 23 year old TA pretending to care what everyone has to say, meticulously tracking who contributes to the discussion and who doesn’t. Whiskey always mumbles something, then slumps into his chair while the three kids who actually care about Modernity theories go for each other’s throats. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _I think i just suck at school lmao_

 _Parserbabey_ _yet your at Samwell_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _to play hockey. I picked the easiest major for a reason_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _the whole reading, sitting still, listening to some guy make everything more complicated than it needs to be for three hours at a time thing, really isn’t for me._

 _Parserbabey_ _But hockey is._

There’s no question mark. Kent’s not asking. Kent knows. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _yeah. Exactly_

Kent doesn’t text back for a couple minutes. So Whiskey throws in his earbuds, sits on the bench outside the lecture hall. He realizes that he has to get out of here before Chowder and Farmer start looking for him. So he pulls his backpack over his shoulder and books it across the quad back to his dorm. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Pulls it out.

_Parserbabey_ _We’re in Providence this weekend, you want tickets?_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _woah, seriously?_

 _Parserbabey_ _Yeah, bring whoever. Obviously you don’t have to tell them I gave them to you. We can hang after if you want._

Whiskey pulls up his own calendar, checks to make sure that their game against Dartmouth is in the afternoon and then grins, from ear to ear. The idea of getting to finally talk to Kent in person makes him happy in a way he hasn’t been since they beat Dartmouth last weekend.

_ConnorWhiskey_ _I’d really like that_

 _Parserbabey_ _I’ll put you down for five tickets. Don’t worry about using them all or anything._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Thanks man!_

Whiskey sends him his mailing address, complicated by the fact that he lives in the dorms, but they smooth it out. 

_Parserbabey_ _excited to hang._

Kent finally sends after snapchat tells Whiskey he’s typing for at least a minute. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _me too. Gotta practice but I’ll talk to you later._

Whiskey is adequately frosty towards Bitty in practice. Listens to Coach Hall’s instructions, but beyond that, it’s head down, hard work, no nonsense hockey. 

Whiskey relishes in the pain hockey causes. Not in any kind of morbid way, he’s not that fucked up. But he likes to be reminded sometimes, of the intensity. He’s not looking to get sliced open by a skate or knocked out by a goon, but the burn in his thighs, the ache in his lung as they skate from blue line to blueline. He feels his ankles start to go numb, his feet hurt and his shoulders are sore. And it’s all  _ so fucking worth it.  _

Because along with the pain, he gets the satisfaction of knowing his muscles are going to carry him for a season, of hearing a puck hit the back of the net after the hardest slapshot he can muster. His thighs ache so he can hear the sound of his skates slicing up the ice, so he can feel like he’s flying. 

They practice three times a week on the ice. Whiskey comes back to his dorm late on Friday night. Practice goes late when Coach knows they don’t have classes to get to in the morning. He’s tired and stiff and he knows he’s going to have to spend some time rolling his muscles out with that foam cylinder Tango insists is good for him. He walks up the stairs, key card in hand. There’s a note slipped under his door. He’ll never understand why Student Services can send someone all the way up to the fifth floor to slide a note under his door telling him to come pick up a package, but won’t actually deliver the package.

So Whiskey walks back down the stairs, thighs feeling like they’re made of cement. He walks across the quad to the service desk and shows them the slip with his dorm number on it. He assumes it’s the tickets from Kent. The girl at the desk hands him an envelope and Whiskey turns to leave.

“Ah, hold on,” she says, and hands him a box with his name on it. 

“I don’t remember ordering this,” he says. 

“Probably some drunk Amazon shopping. “

“Ha, maybe,” Whiskey says. Friendly as ever. 

He mumbles his thanks and takes the elevator up to his room. Fuck the stairs. 

He opens the envelope first, and just as he’d expected, there are five tickets to the Falcs game. He pulls a pair of scissors out of his desk and slices the tape off of the box. There’s a black plastic bag inside, the kind NHLshop uses for shipping. He rips it open with his teeth and feels the coarse texture of a jersey. He pulls it out and smiles to himself. It’s a black Aces home jersey. He turns it over, expecting to see “Parson” written across the back, his number 90, instead he sees “Whisk” 10. He wonders how many strings Kent had to pull to get it crested on time. He unfolds the sleeves and a piece of paper comes fluttering to the ground. He picks it up and sees the unmistakable chicken scratch of a hockey player. 

_ Whiskey _

_ I know you’ve got a signed Zimmerman jersey, but I couldn’t have you at the game on my dime in one of those god awful Falcs jerseys (powder blue? What’s that about). So here’s hoping you look better in red and black.  _

_ Kent _

Whiskey unfolds the jersey. Sets the note on his desk. He turns it over in his hands. It feels special, in a way that even his signed Zimmerman jersey doesn’t. Kent put  _ his  _ name on it, Kent knows his number. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _Thanks for the jersey, man_

 _Parserbabey_ _no problem._

Whiskey doesn’t mention that he saves the note, pins it to his bulletin board. 

_Parserbabey_ _couldn’t have you running around my game in enemy colours_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _lol. You really hate the Falcs that much?_

 _Parserbabey_ _They’re hard to beat. So we try to beat them every time._

 _Parserbabey_ _You know any good bars downtown? Figure we can grab a beer after_

 _Parserbabey_ _on me obviously, I don’t want to strain your college bank account_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Ha. You probably know more about Providence night life than I do._

 _Parserbabey_ _I’ll ask around for recommendations._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _great_

 _Parserbabey_ _Good luck tomorrow. I’ll text before the game_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _thanks._

Whiskey goes to sleep looking at the jersey hanging off the back of his desk chair. Whisk, #10. It’s fitting, he thinks, that it’s an Aces jersey with his name on the back. He’s a hockey player from a place without ice, and the Aces are a team in the desert. They have more in common than he’d have thought at first. 

Kent, as promised, texts Whiskey the morning of the game. He’s a hockey player, so in theory, he’s ready to play hockey whenever he’s called upon, in practice though, there’s something that feels wrong about playing a game at 1 p.m. They’re called to the arena by noon. So Whiskey gets up at six. He needs to have that time, enough time to think, and shower, and go for a run, and settle his stomach. 

Kent texts at eight, just as Whiskey’s getting ready to head to the dorm bathroom and shower. 

_Parserbabey_ _game day! You ready?_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _of course i’m ready. I’m a professional_

 _Parserbabey_ _don’t let the NCAA hear you saying that_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _lol. You ready? When does your flight land._

 _Parserbabey_ _We’re already in the air, so a couple hours._

 _Parserbabey_ _Doesn’t get any less weird no matter how many times I do it_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _flying?_

 _Parserbabey_ _playing Zimms._

Whiskey has never heard anyone call Jack by a nickname. Some of the Falcs call him Zimmboni, but that’s a joke, more often than not, they call him Jack. Just Jack. No one calls him Zimms. Except, now, Kent. Whiskey doesn’t ask why. Just says that he gets how that might be weird. He doesn’t though. Samwell is the first real team Whiskey’s been on. His career before University was stitched together, training sessions, playing in adult leagues, joining teams from other states who needed an extra player. Whiskey’s never had a team. Maybe that’s why he can never figure out how to talk to Bittle. He never had a Kent Parson to his Jack Zimmerman, because he never played with anyone else long enough for that chemistry to develop. 

Maybe if he played long enough with Bittle. For all they don’t get along off the ice, they have a pretty good rapport on it. Whiskey’s always where the puck’s going, it doesn’t matter who’s passing it. 

It occurs to him,just before Tango said he’d pick him up and drive him to the game (Whiskey is tragically, car-less at Samwell) that he hasn’t invited anyone to the game. He’d show up alone, but he doesn’t want Kent Parson, one of the greatest players alive to think he’s a total loser. 

So he gets into Tango’s car. Tango’s blasting a new country album he really likes, it’s not Whiskey’s style, but it’s a free ride, Tango can do whatever the hell he wants to on the way to Faber. He reaches for the volume dial and turns it down just a little. 

“Oh come on man, don’t tell me you hate country,” he groans. 

“Nah. It’s fine. I was just wondering… I scored tickets to the Falcs game tonight, wanna come.”

‘Dude, no way! Was it Jack? Is Bitty going too?”

“No,” Whiskey says quickly, “A friend gave ‘em to me. I figure it could be a boys night, you and me, bro.”

“Why are you asking me though. Shouldn’t you be bringing a Lax bro.”

Whiskey cringes. He searches Tango’s eyes for any sense that he might know what Bitty knows, but it’s not there, just normal, friendly chirping.

“Ha,” Whiskey says, “Can you picture a Chad in an NHL arena?”

“Guess not,” Tango laughs.

He cranks the volume. 

“I’ll pick you up after dinner."

And they drive, Whiskey hangs his hand out the window. Does his best not to think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is appreciated, it makes me feel like people exist while i'm not allowed to leave the house because germs. Are you excited for Kent and Whiskey to finally hang out?


	8. Gonna go to a show and then come home and probably die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's falcs v. aces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from i eat salads now by sidney gish

Whiskey’s scoring, but not like last year, and it’s killing him. He had four more goals by this time last year. He likes progress to be linear, but in reality, he knows most guys have a sophomore slump in their second year. All he wants is to be able to throw the team on his back and run straight to the playoffs, straight to the Frozen Four and straight to a championship. 

There’s loud music leaking from the dressing room. It’s always a toss up for what he’ll hear when he walks in. They never decided on a locker room DJ, so it’s usually the first guy to snatch the AUX who decides what they listen to. If it’s Dex or Tango, odds are the music will be country. Landy’s into this swedish trap music, and honestly it’s pretty good to get hype to. Then there’s the classics, rap, something with a good beat and a nice hook. Bitty never picks his own music, but Whiskey’s heard him sing in the shower enough times to know what it would be. 

Today Landy has the speaker, so it’s pretty hype. 

Whiskey likes to mind his own before a game. He doesn’t have any rituals, but he doesn’t interfere with anyone else’s. It’s an afternoon game, so most of the guys are just wearing slacks and dress shirts when they show up in lieu of their usual game day suits. Ford takes a few pictures to throw on the SMH twitter page and goes to sit near the bench. 

Tango’s humming to himself in his stall, he always sits next to Whiskey. Talks even if Whiskey’s a bad listener. Whiskey’s an especially bad listener when he gets texts from Kent. 

_Parserbabey_ _can you use some of your infinite sway to get Samwell to invest in some better camera equipment_

 _Parserbabey_ _oh god and this kid they have calling play by play. I can not stand this guy. A broom with game notes could do his job. What happened to the girl who called the last game, she was good._

 _Parserbabey_ _Oh fuck you were on the road last game, that’s why. Whatever. This kid’s a Weasel_

Whiskey’s never paid much attention to the kids from SAMTV that call their games. He feels a little hot at the collar realizing that Kent watched his last game, and presumably watches pretty regularly. An NHL superstar gives that much of a shit about him. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _I’ve never met him, what’s he like_

 _Parserbabey_ _He’s got this douchey air to him. How have you never met him?_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _They never ask for me to do any of the off the bench questions_

 _Parserbabey_ _Why? You’re the best scorer_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Bittle gets link clicks_

 _Parserbabey_ _Of course he does_

 _Parserbabey_ _Sorry. I don’t wanna whine before your game._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Did you land yet?_

 _Parserbabey_ _Yeah, headed to the hotel now. If I had more time I’d come to your game_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _I’d like that_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _You might get mobbed though. You don’t have a lot of fans around here._

 _Parserbabey_ _Oh trust me, I know how much Massachusetts hates my ass_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _They just love Mashkov’s more_

 _Parserbabey_ _disgusting. My ass is objectively superior_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _lol_

“So Whiskey’s got a girlfriend,” Tango teases him, talking to Chowder loud enough for him to hear. 

He catches Bitty’s eye from the corner of the room. 

“Fuck off,” is all he says before he drops his phone into his backpack. 

“Let’s kick some Ivy Ass,” Nursey whoops before they take the ice. 

Bitty cheers from the back of the line. He’s always last to hit the ice. 

Whiskey imagines Kent’s eyes on him as he hits the ice. Wants to impress him. So he takes practice shots on Chowder, he tries to settle in. He knows he’s most impressive when he’s relaxed. But recently he’s been falling into old habits. He feels like everyone in the rink is staring right into him, thinking to themselves that he sucks, that he’s bad, that he’s losing them the game. 

But he thinks about Kent’s eyes, watching him receive a pass, or make a play to break the puck out of the neutral zone. 

And Whiskey scores, for the first time in two games, and he thinks about Kent’s eyes on him. Watching through a laptop screen, probably half dressed, his dress shirt unbuttoned, tie hanging around his neck, untied. Jeff Troy probably sitting on the other bed.

Whiskey’s feeling high once they win the game. He showers fast and goes back to his room. He doesn’t mind walking back after the games. Faber’s not that far away, and Tango takes forever to get dressed, he’d rather be walking 15 minutes than waiting on Tango doing nothing. 

There are tickets on his desk, a jersey with his name on it, and his stomach feels like it’s going to drop at any second. He chokes down a protein bar and a smoothie that’s been in his fridge since dinner last night. He can’t eat anything more solid. He’s nervous. For Kent. Because they’re friends, and friends don’t want their friends to lose. 

He agonizes over what to wear for a solid twenty minutes. Hockey players wear suits, but he’s going as a fan. But should a fan try to look nice? He wants to wear the jersey, but wearing it over the suit is gonna make him look like a platinum seat asshole. He settles on a pair of black skinny jeans and a tan hoodie that he pulls the jersey over. He looks at himself in the mirror. He looks good, he’s not happy, but he looks good. 

Tango calls to let him know he’s in the parking lot with Ford, who they invited last minute before the game. She’s sitting in the backseat when he walks up to the car. Long legs, front seat. He opens the passenger door and they’re both wearing Falcs jerseys. Tango, he recognizes as a Mashkov jersey, Ford’s is upon closer inspection a Snow jersey, Ford has a weird affinity for goalies. 

“Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot,” she laughs as Whiskey gets into the car. 

“Huh?” Tango says. 

“Y’know, like the… Nevermind.”

Whiskey chuckles, just to let her know he got the joke. 

“The hell are you wearing?” Tango asks, seeing his jersey as they peel out of the parking lot. 

“Jersey,” he says. 

“Is it custom?” Ford giggles. 

Whiskey shrugs, “It was a gift.”

“From who?” Ford presses. 

“Secret girlfriend, probably,” Tango elbows him, turns to raise an eyebrow. 

“Eyes on the road motherfucker,” Whiskey elbows him back. 

“Where’d you get these tickets anyway?” Ford asks. 

“Friend of a friend,” Whiskey says, non-specific enough that they don’t ask. 

Whiskey’s not a good liar, but he’s well practiced.

His entire body feels like it’s floating just a little bit off the ground as they walk through the doors of the arena. It’s new, there’s not the sense of history like at Faber. But there’s plenty to celebrate. 

There are plenty of people in Falcs jerseys that scowl at him, but no one throws a punch. Maybe if it was a game seven. They find their seats,a few rows up from the glass, behind the visitors bench. Falcs tickets are harder to snag, with them being defending cup champions and all. Kent really must have pulled some strings. They walk down to the glass for warmups, and Whiskey spots Kent near the blueline leaning on his stick talking to Troy. 

“He’s kind of cute,” Ford says, covering half her mouth with her hand. 

Whiskey’s knocked speechless. 

“Parson?” Tango asks. 

She nods. 

“What do you think Whisk?” Tango asks.

“Go fuck yourself Tangredi,” Whiskey answers. 

Ford waves at Snowy as he skates by on his way to the bench. She turns around and shows him her jersey. He holds up a finger as if to say “just a sec,” and returns with a puck that he throws over the glass. Whiskey catches it since his aim was off, but he hands it off to Ford who hugs it to her chest and smiles. 

“Cool!”

They find their seats. Kent didn’t skate past them during warmies, Whiskey’s almost glad because he doesn’t think he’d be able to pretend they weren’t friends when Kent was so close, within shouting distance. Almost glad, because he wants to see Kent, up close, in person, playing their game. 

He can see the back of his head on the bench during the anthem. He sees Jack too, standing on the blueline, he used to watch the way Jack swayed on his skates, hands resting on the butt of his stick, but it’s not him who Whiskey stares at anymore. 

Hockey’s different when it’s your friends on the ice. Whiskey learned that at Samwell, and he learns it pretty fast here too. 

He can’t stop thinking about the gash under Kent’s eye from the puck, how the last thing he wants is more of Kent’s blood on the ice. 

Kent assists on Troy’s goal in the second and Whiskey’s the only one in his section to cheer. Jack gets Kent tangled up in his own skates, checking him against the boards. He’s so close he can hear Kent loudly swearing as Jack goes up the ice on a breakaway. He beats the Aces’ goalie and ties it before the second intermission. 

“So since when are you an Aces fan?” Ford asks during the intermission. 

“I like desert teams,” Whiskey says the first thing he can think of. 

This is a good enough explanation for Tango but Ford presses a little more. 

“So the Coyotes then?”

“I can’t like more than one team?”

“You can like them,” Ford says, “But enough to have a custom jersey?”

“Denice,” Whiskey warns, a rare use of the  _ first name means I’m serious,  _ unwritten rule. 

“Fine, be a secretive little shit. We’re your friends.”

“I just like the team, it’s not that deep.”

Things heat up in the third, because that’s where they always do. He winces as Jack throws a hit on Kent, pumps his fist when Kent throws one on Mashkov. He’s on the edge of his seat for every breakaway. But Snowy’s having himself a night and nothing’s getting past him. There’s 30 seconds left and Whiskey thinks he might end up seeing overtime. But no, Troy’s in front of the net, he passes it back to the D-man, the D-man winds up for a shot but passes to Troy. Troy looks like he’s about to shoot, and Snowy goes down. Troy passes across the crease and Kent buries it in the back of the net. 

The horn doesn’t sound because they’re on the road, but Kent whoops defiantly and the rest of the Aces surround him. The clock winds down and they Aces leave the ice screaming and cheering down the tunnel. Whiskey sneaks a look at Jack. Shaking his head but not angry. Just bitter. 

“That was a show,” Ford says. 

“Good game,” Tango agrees. 

Whiskey has an entirely new problem now. He doesn’t know how he’s going to tell his friends that actually it was Kent Parson who gave him the tickets and actually he’s on his way to hang out right about now. 

Fortunately he doesn’t have to do that.

“There’s this bubble tea place up the road, dog. We have to try it out,” Tango says, “Ford and I want to go.”

So Whiskey sees his out, shakes his head. 

“You guys go without me, I’ll catch a train home. I’m not a big bubble tea guy,” he shrugs. 

“You sure?’

“Yeah. Go ahead without me, I want to check out some of the stuff in the lobby.”

So Whiskey curves his friends, it’s not his proudest moment but it saves him a lot of explaining. Kent texted him directions, told arena staff to expect him. They let him walk right into the dressing room, not whee media are doing interviews, but he gets about as close as you can be. He stands against the back wall and watches Kent give his post game remarks. He catches Whiskey’s eye and winks. 

Whiskey gets flustered, looks down at his shoes, swallows the lump in his throat. Wonders why he wore converse instead of his nikes. Then Kent’s done, he’s walking out of the locker room wearing his suit. Walks up to Whiskey.

“I dunno if this is like a handshake or a hug moment,” he says before pulling Whiskey into a hug. 

Kent smells like expensive cologne, but not the kind people use too much of. Just the right kind, in just the right quantity. 

“Thanks for the tickets, my friends really liked them.”

“What about you?” Kent says. 

“I really liked them too. And the jersey. I  _ really  _ liked the jersey.”

“Thanks,” Kent says, “Like I said. Can’t have you looking like a Falcs fan.”

Kent says goodbye to the team. And he and Whiskey just walk out the door. Like a couple of normal guys. Nice thing about playing hockey, no one really knows who you are if you’re not in your own market. People know who Whiskey is, and that’s the worst part. Kent can go unnoticed, but Whiskey’s the guy who everyone looks to after Bitty.

“I rented a car, so I figured we could drive around until we find something to do?” Kent suggests. 

Whiskey nods. 

“That last goal was amazing,” Whiskey says, “Cross crease, just absolutely beautiful.”

Kent smiles, he’s a lot more humble than his on ice celebrations would indicated. They climb into his car and keep talking.

“It was all Swoops… Troy. We call him Swoops.”

“Right. You’re wrister was still… just the power in that. Was great.”

“He man, I’m not the only one scoring pretty goals today. You made Dartmouth look stupid today.”

Whiskey looks down at his hands. Kent jams the keys in the ignition and starts the car. 

Whiskey shrugs, “It was about time. I’m not scoring like I used to be.”

“Sophomore slump,” Kent shrugs, “Happens to us all.”

“Still sucks,” 

“Yeah.”

Street lights shine through the windows as they drive through downtown providence. Every club and bar they pass by is teeming with Samwell kids, and that’s not what Whiskey wants. Samwell kids know who he is, thanks to the posters that SMH slapped his face on to advertise for the games. 

“I get it,” Kent says, “It’s exhausting never being more than the hockey player.”

“Exactly,” Whiskey nods. 

“I can just drive you home.”

“No!” Whiskey says, it sounds more desperate than he means, “I mean, you’re only here for one night. I want to hang out.”

“I’d feel kind of sleazy taking you to my hotel bar.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“Alright then” Kent swings the car around, parks in the parking garage. 

Whiskey trails just behind him as they walk to the elevator. Kents hand swings back and brushes against his leg. It’s an accidental touch, but Whiskey jumps anyway. 

“Sorry!” Kent says. 

“No, it’s fine,” Whiskey says back. 

It’s awkward. Whiskey’s awkward, he knows he’s making it awkward but he can’t help it. 

The bartender doesn’t make him show his ID and he’s not sure if it’s because he passes or he’s with Kent. They drink beers with lime in them and it’s cool. Kent’s cool. He remembers shit that Whiskey mentioned in passing, like that he hates wrestling, that he wants to play in the desert again, that he’d want to be a doctor if he was smart enough. 

Whiskey turns to Kent after their fourth round. 

“So was it as weird as usual?”

“What?” Kent asks. 

One of his arms is resting on the edge of the table, he’s open, spread out. Relaxed or really good at pretending to be. 

“Playing Jack?”

Kent shrugs, “S’always weird.”

“You were really good teammates. When I watched when I was a kid, that’s all I could ever think about. You just knew where the other was going to be.”

Kent snorts, “He still knows where I’m gonna be. It’s a pain in the ass.”

Whiskey remembers all the hits, how Jack was always there just a second early. 

“Everyone thinks I’m the dirty player, but that motherfucker finishes his checks. He always has.”

“I remember that.”

Kent laughs, bitter and dry, “Back then I couldn’t imagine playing in the NHL without him. Somehow, I always thought we’d stay on the same team.”

Whiskey nods. 

“Why am I talking about Jack, man. Let’s talk about you.”

Whiskey smiles. 

“You gonna play with me one day?”

“That’d be cool.”

“Arizona. You wouldn’t even have to adjust to the climate.”

Then Kent asks the question Whiskey never wants anyone to ask. No one’s ever brave enough to. But Kent? He asks anyway. 

“Why weren’t you in the draft?”

“Complicated,” Whiskey answers. He’s nursing a fifth beer. 

“I’ve heard complicated draft stories. I was there for the most famously complicated draft story of all time.”

Whiskey sees a hint of sadness behind Kent’s sparkling eyes. The smirk is hiding some other feeling. 

“It’s not Zimmerman complicated, not quite,” Whiskey smiles. 

“You obviously don’t have to tell me. But I’m not gonna tell anyone else.”

Whiskey smiles sadly, looks into his bottle like he’s remembering something, and he is. Sitting in a hotel bar just like this one while Rach sobbed and screamed, and he was just there, staring up at the flat screens on the wall. Wrestlemania was on. 

“My coach died six months before. I just shut down,” he shrugs, “Don’t know why but I could barely get out of bed.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent says, nothing else to offer. 

“I’m over it,” Whiskey lies. Kent knows it. 

They get to talk about more pleasant things. Kent avoids the topic of Jack, Whiskey avoids the topic of the draft. Neither one of them talks about being gay. 

Whiskey accepts Kent’s offer to call him an uber and they hug outside the hotel. When Whiskey pulls back, Kent’s staring at him. Their eyes lock and Whiskey looks at him,at his face. Like he’s trying to memorize it, like he wants all of it. Kent’s hands are on his biceps, holding him there. Whiskey doesn’t want to step away, not now, not ever. Kent’s lips are just parted, Whiskey looks down at them. They’re soft and he wonders what they’d feel like against his. 

Kent pulls away first. 

“You’re car’s here,”

“Thanks,” Whiskey says. 

He gets into the car and it hits him. He wanted to kiss Kent. Does he  _ like  _ Kent?

Shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said SLOW burn
> 
> also,Whiskey is 21 because hockey players never go to University on time, that's not a fact that is gonna be important in the fic, but i figure i'd point that out in case anyone got confused. So basically he's not that much younger than Bitty, who I assume went to school when he was 18/19ish because he wasn't playing high level hockey.  
> But yeah, hockey players be old. 
> 
> Next chapter's about Kent
> 
> come yell about whiskey with me on tumblr https://omg-whiskey.tumblr.com/


	9. Confused desires since my teenage years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent is going to lose it. Swoops is going to find it for him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from I feel wrong by glasvegas. it's a Kent Song (tm) about feeling Very Bad about being gay, it's one of my favourites but big trigger warning for some queer angst

Swoops. Kent needs to talk to Swoops, actually Kent needs to talk to Kelli, but she’s in Vegas so Swoops is a good surrogate. Kelli gives good relationship advice, Swoops’ advice is almost always “just see how it goes,roll with it,” but that’s better than nothing right now. 

He races up the stairs to the elevator. He’s going a mile a minute and he might cry if he doesn’t get to his room right fucking now. He feels like they can see it on him. The wanting. Kent hasn’t wanted this badly since he was a teenager. And he needs to shut it down. Right now. 

“Swoops, I fucked up,” he says, barrelling through the door. 

His tie is already in his hands, he throws it at his bed. Swoops is sitting on his own bed, holding a book in his lap. Swoops puts his book down. 

“What did you do Parser.”

“I like him. Swoops, I fucking like him a lot. How the fuck do I stop?”

Swoops doesn’t laugh. And that’s why Kent loves their friendship, no matter how messy Kent’s personal life is, no matter how silly and panicky he seems. Swoops treats it like it’s serious. Because it is, to Kent. 

“What’s wrong with that?” Swoops swings his legs over the bed and sits to face Kent. 

“I can’t.”

“Honestly man, I thought I was getting sexiled tonight.”

Kent sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. 

“I wanted to,” he admits, “but not just… I wanted to  _ kiss  _ him goodnight.”

“You didn’t?”

Kent shakes his head, “That’d be dumb, wouldn’t it.”

“I kissed Kelli goodnight on our first date.”

“Was that a date?” Kent asks, “I don’t know.”

“It seemed like it,” Swoops says, “It doesn’t have to be if you don’t want it to be. But you got ready like it was a date.”

“You’ve never seen me go on a date,” Kent snaps

You sent him a jersey.”

“Yeah but like…”

“Parse,” Swoops says, “I think it’s okay to like someone.”

Kent stands up, “No,” he says, “No, I don’t… I don’t do that. I  _ can’t  _ do that. It’s different for me, I just  _ can’t. _ ” he’s pacing now. 

“Yeah but you do.”

“And that’s the problem, Swoops. Man, I like him so fucking much. I liked him before I met him. That’s crazy isn’t it? To like someone because of his snapchats, because we talked on the phone ONCE, when he was  _ crying _ ? What am I on, who do I think I am?”

“That’s normal,” Swoops says. 

“Okay but,” Kent sighs, “I’m not,” he hisses, “You and Kelli, man, that’s it. Those are the people I’ve told.”

“Jack,” Swoops says. 

“I don’t want to fucking think about Zimmerman right now,” Kent shoots Swoops a look that could kill, 

“Parser, I don’t wanna be that guy who makes you talk about shit you don’t wanna talk about, but maybe it’s worth thinking about one of these days.”

“You act like they didn’t force me through therapy the second I got here,” Kent rolls his eyes. 

“NHL therapy. You and I both know that doesn’t count.”

“It helped. Trauma and all that shit, almost losing a friend, my developing brain or whatever.”

“Parse, I’m not talking about your developing brain, I’m talking about your inability to get close to anyone.”

“Hey, we’re friends!”

“Because I didn’t give you an option,” Swoops points out. 

Kent smiles, gently. His facade cracks as he remembers the two of them standing with the Aces brass for photo ops, two eighteen year olds looking at what their career was about to become. Kent did his best to avoid making a new friend so soon after losing an old one. But Swoops was there the whole time, forcing him out of his condo, learning to cook together. He never knows quite how to explain the way he loves Swoops, he guesses it’s probably the way someone loves their college roommate. He drives him crazy sometimes, but they’re locked in together now. 

“I hate this, I just fucking hate this.”

“S’not fair,” Swoops says. 

“I know. I just,” he lays down in his bed and stares up at the ceiling. 

He can tell Swoops anything, he just can’t look at his face while he does it. 

“If I could stop, I would.”

“Stop what?” Swoops asks the question he already knows the answer to.

“Being gay,” Kent mumbles. It’s rare for him to actually use the word, he and Swoops speak in euphemisms. Tonight though, Kent’s gonna be gay, and he’s gonna say everything he wants to get off his chest.

Swoops sighs. 

“Don’t,” Kent says, “Don’t tell me that I shouldn’t wish that, because it makes my life miserable. I hate it, I hate myself, I hate the way it makes me a worse player, the way it makes me have to hide. I hate the way I turn red when Carly starts talking shit about Jack, that I have to leave the fucking room when guys start talking about how they hate using pride tape. I just  _ fucking hate it so much. _ And I hate that despite my best efforts… I really like this guy.” 

“I notice the way you look at your phone when he texts you. He makes you happy, man. You really deserve to be happy.”

“Hockey makes me happy too. I don’t know how to have both.”

“I’m sorry,” Swoops says. 

Kent’s staring at the ceiling but he knows Swoops is looking right at him. 

“Swoops, I’m a fuckin’ mess,” he rubs his temples, “He looked like Jack,” he says, “In those highlights. He had that look in his eyes. That determination, and he had the eyes and the hands an at first I just wanted to to tell him… how good he was. Then I just… Well now I’m here with fuckin’ heart eyes every time he texts me. “

“Aw Parse,” Swoops groans. 

“It sucks. Sorry I’m such a sad sack.” 

“Don’t. Everyone gets to be a sad sack sometimes.”

“Yeah, like when you got drunk and told me you thought Kelli was cheating but she was actually just getting a dog.”

And then they laugh at each other, like they always do. The tears that Swoops will say he never saw dry on his cheeks. At the end of it all, they still laugh at each other. 

Kent has a pair of airpods that Kelli convinced him to buy around Christmas, he keeps them in his suit pocket, wears them on the plane, and sometimes when he needs to go to sleep. Their social media guy takes pictures of their pre-game outfits and Kent hates being the guy who wears headphones, so he always slides them into his jacket pocket before he gets off the plane. 

He finds them and puts them in his ears. He likes to listen to the playlists that Kelli makes. Kelli’s an instagram influencer, technically but she’s one of the cooler ones that Kent follows. She has a blog where she reviews albums and goes to shows. So her playlists are good. It’s not the stuff Kent would admit to listening to, it’s the kind of stuff someone would put on at a basement party, or in a movie. It’s not locker room music. Kelli sends him her private playlists too, they all have nice cover art and specific names. He listens to one she said she made thinking about him and Swoops sleeping on the road. The cover art is a picture of Swoops, curled up in a hotel looking perfectly peaceful. He hits play and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm literally just writing all day (world's on fire can't go outside) so i'll just throw chapters up all week whenever I finish them. thank you for your comments, they are usually bright spots in very long and boring days. I hope you're all taking care of yourselves.


	10. We've got something hateful on our minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey is overwhelmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from alpha rats nest by the mountain goats (because i am indie folk trash)

Whiskey is… an idiot. He likes Kent Parson, arguably tied for greatest hockey player of all time, NHLer, millionaire, tragically closeted and  _ way  _ out of Whiskey’s league. He’s calmed by the fact that Kent almost definitely won’t like him back. They’re friends, he’s a friend. He’s not… 

But the gym pictures, the teasing, the constant winking emoticons… No. There’s no way. He shakes his head. Homework, work out, play hockey. That’s what Whiskey’s going to do. 

But Kent’s part of that. He hasn’t noticed until now how often he texts Kent in class, how many times he’s stopped doing his homework because Kent filmed Kit getting stuck in between the fridge and the wall. How much he relies on that pre-game “good luck text”. 

They come, they all come. But he’s distracted now, thinking about everything. Coach Hall notices in practice. Calls him into his office and tells him to “get his head on straight.”

Ha. 

On top of it all, he’s been avoiding Chad. He’s going to have to face him. And when he does, he decides, he’s going to have to tell him they can’t hook up anymore. He has to before Chad catches feelings, or Whiskey blurts out that he wants to make out with an NHL player. 

He’s staring at his phone in the room after practice. Bitty looks over his shoulder. 

“Hey, Connor,” he says, “Do you have uh… anything you need to talk about?” he asks quietly. 

Whiskey thinks Tango can hear as he stands up an throws his bag over his shoulder. 

“Nope!” He shoots up. 

Tango follows behind him, keys jingling in his hands. 

“You want a ride , bro?”

Whiskey just nods, “Yeah, whatever.”

They get into the car, and Tango doesn’t turn on the music. Whiskey thinks about getting out, but Tango peels out of the parking lot. 

“Man, I know you don’t talk to Bitty, but like… Are you alright? You seem rattled.”

Tango is, to put it politely, an idiot who would never figure it out on his own. But he’s a sweet idiot and that makes Whiskey feel like a really shitty friend. Because Tango is his friend, he’s one of the few on the hockey team who doesn’t make Whiskey feel like he’s somewhere he doesn’t belong. In theory, Tango’s the perfect guy to come out to, he doesn’t have to worry about Tango asking too many questions because he’s not gonna think of them. He won’t overanalyze because that’s just not who he is. 

In practice though, telling Tango is as terrifying as telling anybody else. Not even about Kent. Just those stupid two words, “I’m bi.” Or about Chad, he wants to tell somebody about Chad, so they can know what an awful piece of shit guy he is. Because really, what a dick move. 

So he looks over at Tango, Tango’s looking over at him, he’s got his finger in his mouth because he cut himself on something earlier today and he won’t stop bitching about it. Tango turns on the radio but Whiskey reaches out to stop him. 

“Hey man...can you uh… Can you keep a secret?”

“Yeah bro, as long as it’s not like, murder. Unless I’m your lawyer… I think my labour studies TA was saying something about that last week… unless that would be… oh but I’m not your lawyer. Am I?

“Tango,” Whiskey says, “Secret?”

“Yeah bro, I wouldn’t rat on you or anything.”

“This isn’t like that… I just want to know that it’ll stay between us.”

“Totally y’know, unless.”

“Unless it’s murder, got it” Whiskey’s starting to get impatient, knows that if he waits a second longer he’ll lose whatever courage he’s got right now. 

“So,” Whiskey starts, “I think I’m gay. Maybe bi. I’m still working on the words for it.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. Thanks for trusting me, man. It’s not a big deal, Bitty and Jack and stuff.”

“Yeah they’re stuff is different,” Whiskey says. 

“Like how?”

“You might hate me for the next part… I’ve been hooking up with Chad from the lacrosse team.”

Tango swerves the car slightly, “Bro!”

“They’re not bad dudes,” Whiskey shrugs, “But like… it’s weird with Chad. Messy and shit. Dunno if I like him as much as he likes me. But he’s a really good guy, Tang, he just is. And I feel like a dickhead for stringing him along like this.’

“Sounds like you have the exact same problems as half the guys in that locker room. Louis is wheeling some exchange student and he’s all in his feelings about it, Chowder won’t shut the fuck up about Farmer, and Nursey’s worried he contributing to the _male_ _gaze_ whenever he checks a chick out.”

“Who the fuck is Louis,” is all Whiskey has to say. 

“Landman, brah. Nicknames.”

“Fuck. When did that happen.”

“Don’t really know but whatever.”

“Just when I thought I had a hang of this shit you guys changed the nickname rules.”

“There are no rules, man. Whatever your heart tells you.”

“Ha. Yeah. Guess I’m still getting used to this whole being on a team thing. I never got this shit.”

‘Huh,” Tango says. 

“Sun belt, man. We don’t have teams. I was driving to Minnesota every other weekend to play with guys I barely knew.”

Tango’s looking at him like he’s trying to read something, but then he just shrugs, smiles wide and swings into the parking lot

Whiskey sees an escape route, decides that he can’t bring himself to tell Tango about Kent. That feels like too big a secret, it feels like a secret that doesn’t just belong to him. 

Tango reassures him one more time that his secret is safe and then heads to his own place. 

He’s staring at his phone. He wants to text Tango and tell him it was a lie, a joke, anything. Because he feels so much, he feels too much. He just wants it gone. All these feelings that he never asked for. 

He has to deal with it, he has to deal with something. Instead he just curls up on top of his bed, wearing his sweatpants and hoodie, he feels like pure and utter shit. 

He holds his phone close to his chest and without thinking, he opens up Instagram, finds Kit’s account. There’s a couple new pictures. He clicks on one of the videos. Kent’s in his apartment and there’s a basketball game on his TV, he recognizes it as the Clippers game from a few days ago. The camera’s focused on Kit though, Kent’s scratching at the top of her head. The nails that he bites off sometimes scratch behind her ears and Whiskey can hear her purring. Then there’s a video of Kit standing in front of the TV. One of the Clippers is taking free throws from the foul line and every time he goes to shoot, Kit swats at the image of the ball. Kent’s barely contained laughter comes out as a snort over the video. He sighs. 

Chad texts him. 

_ You wanna come over? _

So Whiskey gets up, and he walks to the lax house. Because he likes Kent, probably,maybe, almost definitely. But Chad’s there. Chad’s a certainty. 

Chad kisses him on the cheek when he comes through the door. There’s a movie playing on the flatscreen and they’re alone in the house, the rest of the team has an economics lecture together, Chad’s a political science major. 

He puts his arm around Whiskey and Whiskey wants to lean into it because the touch is nice and Chad deserves someone who leans in but he can’t. 

“Connor, are you alright?” Chad finally asks. 

“Hmm?” Whiskey says, “Yeah.”

“I don’t know if you’re lying or not.”

“I’m fine,” Whiskey says. 

“Connor, you can tell me things.”

And Whiskey snaps, he’s had enough of whatever he’s feeling and Chad’s not making it better and everything is so  _ loud  _ and he just wants Chad to shut up. 

“Yeah, maybe I don’t want to Chad,” he pulls himself out of Chad’s arms, “You’re not my fucking boyfriend, I’m not yours. We hook up sometimes, that’s all this is to me, okay?” He stands up

“Connor?” Chad says, he looks confused. 

Whiskey feels like the worst person in the world. All he wants is to walk out the door and keep walking until his legs give out from under him and just lay in the grass until the earth swallows him whole. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t know how to say,  _ “You’re really nice but i get the feeling you’re into this more than I am and I really don’t want to hurt you when I tell you that I maybe probably like somebody else”  _ So instead, he starts a fight.

“Chad,” he says in a mocking tone. 

“Connor I didn’t mean to...I’m sorry. Just, if something was bothering you… I thought you’d want to talk”

“I don’t want to talk that’s not what this is,” Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“We’re friends. That’s part of the  _ friends  _ with benefits thing. I’m allowed to care about you as a person and you seemed kind of distant, that’s all. Okay? It’s not like that? Fine, but I don’t want to have sex with someone every weekend and feel like I’m making him bug out or something”

“Whatever,” Whiskey says again, more defensive this time. 

“If you don’t want me to care about you I won’t.”

“I don’t,” Whiskey lies

“You’re being a dick man.”

“I’m just gonna go,” Whiskey picks up his backpack and throws it over his shoulder.  “So that’s it?” Chad asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey answers. 

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry chad :(


	11. The decade taken hostage by my own guilty conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kelli and Swoops are the couple friends that everyone calls "mom and dad" and they'll probably get married by Elvis on day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from tellin lies by the menzingers, this chapter is not as angsty as the title implies

Kent is at home, it’s an off day, one of the rare ones where Coach doesn’t make them come in for a team skate. 

Kelli’s always inviting Kent over on the off days, she says it’s because Swoops never listens to her talk about music, and Kent’s a good audience. Maybe that’s a little of it, but he knows there’s more of it that has to do with her not wanting to leave him alone in his empty condo. 

He shows up a little after three , he opens the front door without knocking. Kelli’s in the kitchen baking something. She’s not  _ good  _ at making anything complicated, but she can work her way around a cake or some brownies. It smells good. The kitchen’s open and the massive glass windows look out over the strip. The kitchen gets more use than most NHL kitchens thanks to Kelli. 

She’s barefoot wearing a white skirt that goes down to her knees and a band t-shirt that she tucked in to the skirt. Kent can tell it’s from one of the gigs she covered a few months ago for her blog. 

“Hey,” he says as he closes the door behind him. 

The island in the middle of the kitchen has barstools in front of it. It’s covered in flour from Kelli’s baking adventure. Kent sits on one of the stools. There’s a record player on a stand near the dining room table. She’s playing a record that’s shaped like a pink heart, Kent watches it spin for a minute. 

“That’s cute,” Kent says. 

“Limited edition, I bought it at one of her concerts.”

“I like it,” he says.

She kisses the top of his head, she’s younger than him, but sometimes she seems much older, much wiser. 

“Jeff’s picking up asparagus to go with dinner. I’m making dessert right now.”

“Smells good,” he says. 

Kelli’s dyed the ends of her hair a deep navy blue since the last time Kent’s seen her. She must notice him staring because she runs her hands through her hair and laughs. 

“You and Jeff were on a roadie, I got bored.”

The blue fades nicely into her already naturally blonde hair. 

“You look good,” he says. 

“Okay, normally you’d be making fun of me for an impulse hair style, what’s wrong?’

Kent just shakes his head, “Nah, just tired.”

“Don’t be a boy about it, Ken,” she waves her spoon in the air threateningly. 

“It’s fine Kel, I’m fine.”

“You’re  _ such  _ a bad liar,” she says with a smile on her face, “Lick this,” she hands him a spoon. 

“This is definitely not in my diet plan.”

“I do not give a fuck about your diet plan.”

So Kent licks the spoon. The icing is the perfect mix of sweet and sour, it’s a lemon glaze, he thinks. 

“Good,” he says. 

“Perfect. I’m making a lemon cake. And you two are going to eat it, nutritionists be damned.”

He smiles, it doesn’t quite get up to his eyes and Kelli notices,but she doesn’t say anything. 

“Jeff told me you finally hung out with that guy last weekend,” She’s juicing lemons while they talk. 

“Oh,” Kent says, “Yeah,” he looks down at his hands, shrugs. 

“How was it?”

‘Uhhh,” Kent trails off. 

“Ken,” she holds up her spoon like she’s about to hit him with it, “You  _ know _ that you don’t get to avoid me.”

Kent sighs there’s still a smile on his face. It’s Kelli. Kelli who lets him lay in her lap and watch trashy TV shows that Swoops pretends he doesn’t like. It’s Kelli who impulsively dyes her hair or cuts her bangs every time her and Swoops are on the road. Kelli who never had to be told that Kent was gay, just knew. Kelli wasn’t there to pick up the pieces when he first got to Vegas but he knows she would have. It was Kelli who offered to kill the boy who’d broken Kent’s heart when he was eighteen,  _ “you don’t just cut someone off after something like that,”  _ she kept screaming,  _ “it’s more complicated than that,”  _ Kent said, still holding back details. 

So Kent answers Kelli. 

“I uh… don’t think I’m gonna keep seeing him.”

Kelli puts a batter filled cake tin into the oven and turns to him.

“And why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“You don’t like him.”

“I like him too much.”

“Oh is this going to be another one of those things I  _ just wouldn’t get _ ? So you can’t tell me” She says in a deep voiced mocking tone. 

Kent shrugs. 

“Like how Jack Zimmerman broke your heart but you still refuse to tell me it was him.”

“Who told you?”

“Nobody Ken, I just have half a brain. He’s the only one I’ve ever heard call you Kenny.”

Kent drops his head into his hands. Kelli sits next to him, rubs her hand over his back. 

“He never told me if he did it on purpose or not,” Kent manages to say the thing he hasn’t said to anyone, not even Swoops in almost ten years. 

“Does it matter?”

“Yes? Maybe. Probably not.”

Kent sighs, “This guy… he’s. Fuck. He’s Jack. The way he plays, the way he talks and feels… it’s the same… but it’s different too, but it’s. Fuck,” He groans. 

‘Kent,” She says, “Not everybody’s gonna be Jack Zimmerman. Probably not even Jack Zimmerman anymore.”

Kent doesn’t want to cry, he tries to hold it back, but a few tears leak out of his eyes and roll down his cheeks.

“What if it was my fault?” He finally chokes out. 

“What?” Kelli freezes. 

“Jack. What if I did that to him.”

Kelli’s got both her arms wrapped around him now, pulling him close to her chest. 

“You couldn’t. Kent, no. That’s not… You’re a good person, you didn’t know.”

“I should have,” he shakes his head.

“Kent you were eighteen. He was eighteen. You were kids.”

“And one of the kids was dying and the other one didn’t know what to do about it!” Kent snaps, tries to pull away from Kelli, she lets him go, but he comes right back, burying his head in her shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry that that happened to you, and it’s not fair and you still deserve someone who makes you happy and if you like someone you shouldn’t punish yourself for that, okay?”

Kent shakes his head, “I dunno Kel. This guy...he’s special. He has that look and he’s already so much like Jack. What if somehow I push him over the edge? What if there’s something wrong with  _ me _ ?”

“We both know that’s bullshit.”

Kent sighs, “I wanted to kiss him. A lot.”

“So now you can wait until the second date.”

She pats the top of his head, he smiles despite his intentions. 

“Help me cut vegetables?” She asks. 

He nods and they stand up together, she hands him a paring knife and some sweet potatoes and he gets to work peeling them. Kelli walks up behind him and re-positions his hands so his fingers are out of the way. 

“I am not going to be responsible for the captain cutting off his fingers,” she jokes. 

He laughs and turns his hands the way she tells him to. He’s never been more grateful for a person’s patience than Kelli’s. 

Kent hears a sharp bark and the sound of paws hitting the floor as the door opens and Swoops walks in with a paper back of groceries. He yips until Swoops bends down to scratch behind his ears. 

“Okay Max, chill out,” he says. 

Max is a fluffy mess of a dog, Kelli got him from a shelter so no one knows quite what he is, just that he sheds like crazy and he’d rip someone to shreds for a piece of cheese. 

“I have the asparagus,” Swoops says triumphantly. 

“You are my hero,” Kelli says and kisses him on the mouth, “Now go do something else because Kenneth and I have this under control.”

Kent throws a piece of sweet potato at her and she laughs. 

“That’s not even my name.”

Kelli sticks her tongue out, “Can you put on a new record, my love,” she says to Swoops. 

“We do have spotify.”

“Don’t question my aesthetic choices,” she says. 

And Swoops, predictably, picks on of Kelli’s rock albums. She smiles when the first song starts, loud guitars and mediocre singing, but fun, happy. Kelli puts Kent in charge of icing the cake while she steps out onto the balcony to grill the chicken. 

She’s humming under her breath and Swoops is making himself useful setting the table. She leaves the glass door open and the fresh air fills the kitchen. It smells like paprika and chicken and parmesan and everything feels warm. 

Kelli kisses Swoops as she walks back inside, he pulls her against his torso and spins her to the music, hugging her tight. 

Kent has never been so close to two people. Even Jack didn’t know all of him, but he feels like Kelli and Swoops just get it. In a way they helped him grow up. Swoops at first, when they bonded after the draft. Now Kelli, dancing in the kitchen. They look like real adults. Back when they were all like 24, Kent felt like he was caught up, but now all his friends are getting married, or engaged and having kids, and Kent feels left behind.

He’s sitting at the dining room table watching. There’s an ache in his chest. He looks at them and thinks  _ I want that _ , not either of them, obviously. But what they have, the way they look at each other, the way they share space so effortlessly. He wants a kitchen and a drawer with a full set of cutlery that gets used more than once a month. He wants someone to share it with. 

Kelli always goes out of her way to make sure that Kent doesn’t feel like a third wheel. Not like he’s hanging out with Swoops and Swoops’ girlfriend, but he’s hanging out with two friends. That doesn’t stop Kent from feeling like he’s overstaying a welcome every time he hangs out with them. 

Then he realizes, if he wants that, he has to try. At least a little bit. 

So he takes a picture of the cake in front of him.  _ If hockey doesn’t work out, i’ll open a bakery _ , he captions the photo. He sends it to Connor. He Kent watches as the app tells him that Whiskey’s opened it. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _it looks really good_

 _Parserbabey_ _I didn’t actually do the hard part lmao, it was Swoops’ gf_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _baby steps._

Kent takes a deep breath.  _ Kiss him on the second date,  _ thanks Kel. 

_Parserbabey_ _we play the Bruins on Wednesday. I know you play Wednesday too, but I can catch a later flight and we can grab lunch thursday or something_

Whiskey’s bitmoji is typing for a lot longer than it would take for him to typ

_ConnorWhiskey_ _okay_

 _Parserbabey_ _i’ll pick u up._

  
  


“Are you talking to him?” Kelli runs up behind him, a plate of grilled vegetables in her hand. 

He nods, “I asked if he wanted to hang out on Thursday after Boston”

Kelli squeals and hugs him, she attacks his cheek with kisses. 

“This is progress!” 

Swoops just laughs, “What lie are you telling Coach to stay back for a day.”

Kent smiles to himself, “Family or something, dunno. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Yes!” Kelli exclaims to no one in particular. 

She pours three glasses of red wine before setting the grilled chicken on the table. 

There’s still music playing, quieter. Kent can’t wipe the smile off of his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey's in Connecticut next chapter.


	12. Don't you worry, I'm right here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey, Tango, and Foxtrot talk about some things. They let other go unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Don't Go by Greeting Committee

Whiskey feels like he’s been holding his breath since he talked to Chad. He’s moving through life, head down, homework, work out, play hockey. They’re playing in UConn tonight. Whiskey’s sitting in his stall next to Tango. Already dressed, waiting for the okay to head out for warmups. 

He takes shots on Chowder, skates past a bickering Nursey and Dex. Bitty taps him with his stick on the back of his pads. He hasn’t scored in three games, and it’s hanging over everybody. He can feel them tiptoeing around the fact. 

Whiskey takes the ice with Bitty on his wing. Bitty looks over at him and gives him a sharp nod. 

Whiskey wins the faceoff, he’s a faceoff guy, it’s practically a given by now. The puck seems to roll onto his stick and he passes to Bitty. Bitty tears up the ice. Whiskey’s the only person who can match his speed. 

“Yes Whiskey!” He hears Tango shout from the bench. 

Whiskey receives the pass from Bitty, he winds up for a one timer and UConn’s goalie saves it. 

“Fuck!” 

“We’ve got this Whiskey, good first play,” Hall says when he comes back for the line change. 

He slaps Tango on the shoulder pads as Tango hops over the boards. 

He focuses on catching his breath, the sweat that’s pooling in his equipment. It’s reassuring, in some strange fucked up way, to know that Kent’s breathing heavy right now too.

He’s sitting next to Bitty, leans over to point something out about one of the UConn defenders. It’s their last away game before the exam break and Whiskey wants to make it count.

“You can get past him on the next shift, he never looks down,” Whiskey says. 

It’s halfway through the second and they’re trailing by two by the time they get the chance to test that theory. 

Whiskey wins the faceoff and throws the puck to Bitty. Whiskey was wrong though, the defender’s looking down and he has hatred in his eyes. Not the regular kind, but the kind that tells Whiskey he’s about to hear a slur. Bitty gets knocked into the boards, falls to his knees and gets back up. Whiskey doesn’t hear the first thing he says, but the second thing is. 

“I will kill you,  _ bitch.”  _

Whiskey just freezes, his shoulders hang jaw open. And the Dex is chasing after the guy, hits him with a hard check after he gets rid of the puck. The whistle blows and the ref’s arm goes up. 

“Oh so you’ll call that but not an unsportsmanlike for the jolly green fucking giant!” He shouts. 

“Watch it #24 or I’ll give you four minutes.”

“Bullshit!” Dex yells on his way to the box. 

“You okay?” Tango asks Whiskey when he gets back to the bench. 

Whiskey nods. 

Bitty’s swatting away an athletic trainer as he asks his concussion protocol questions. 

They lose 2-0. 

Bitty’s shaking his head in the locker room. 

“I’m sorry team, we should have had that.”

Dex is shaking his head, “Nah Bits, what we should have had is four more power plays than we did, and the number of that guy’s mom so we could call her and let her know what a piece of shit her son is.”

Bitty smiles, “thanks, Dex.”

“Bus in twenty,” he says, pulling his blazer on over his dress shirt. 

So Whiskey takes off his equipment. He sees the way Bitty hangs his shoulders. Whiskey is determined not to let that happen to him. 

It’s hockey the last thing anyone wants to do is stand out, being the kid from Arizona already makes people look at him twice. He’s not about to give anyone another reason. 

Everything Whiskey has done since he was seventeen has been to protect himself. The isolation, the absolute refusal to get close to anybody, it’s all been to keep himself safe. Because when Whiskey was seventeen his hockey coach drove his car into a guard rail and died on impact. And when Whiskey was seventeen he had to hold his best friend sobbing in their hotel bathroom and beg her to realize that everything was going to be okay. And when Whiskey was seventeen he had to stand up in front of the hockey coach’s family and tell everyone how much he meant to them while his hands shook. When Whiskey was seventeen he felt like he never deserved to be happy again. Felt like he couldn’t play hockey if his coach couldn’t be there to see it. So When whiskey was eighteen, he told himself he was done. 

Now he’s here and he’s not done, and the NHL is still calling his name and he has hockey in his heart again. But that’s all he has room for. He doesn’t like the person he is, but it’s the only way he knows how to be now. 

Tango sits next to him on the bus and Ford is across the aisle with her legs stretched across and resting on Tango’s lap. Most of the guys are sleeping, heads lolled back in their seats. Whiskey and Tango are awake though, passing Whiskey’s phone back and forth trying to beat Ford, who’s also awake and on her phone, at Words with Friends. 

It’s Ford’s turn, she scrunches up her nose a little bit before playing the word  _ quaint.  _

Tango looks down at the tiles on Whiskey’s phone, he drags the letters on to the board.  _ Queer.  _ It’s a good word, it scores 14 points on its own, and it’s on a triple word tile.

“We don’t have to,” Tango whispers, looking guilty suddenly.

“Huh?” Whiskey says, “S’fine, that’s like 30 points, dude.”

“Sick,” Tango laughs. 

He sees Ford scrunch up her nose as it loads on her phone. He’s not sure if it’s because she thinks they’re being dumb boys or because they just scored 42 points in one turn. 

Tango and Whiskey win the game, but they’re not sure how much they can celebrate since there are two of them and she’s beaten them four times. They play eight ball together for the next twenty minutes. 

The bus drops them off at Faber. 

“You guys want a ride?” He says to Tango and Ford as they file off the bus. 

Whiskey and Ford both nod. 

“I’m starving, you wanna grab burgers before we go home?”

“Tango, it’s midnight,” Ford sighs. 

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t crush a bacon cheeseburger right now?”

Ford relents and Whiskey just follows behind them,a shrug in his shoulder.

“Is Jerry’s open?” Tango asks.

“Jerry’s is always open,” Ford answers. 

“Yeah baby!” Tango cheers. 

Whiskey gets into the passenger seat. Ford squishes into the middle seat so she can talk to both of them in equal measure. 

“Man I’m gonna crush some fries when we get there,” Tango says. 

“Jerry’s fries dipped in a milkshake, mmm,” Ford says, her eyes are droopy, she’s been up since dawn, getting ready for their road trip. 

They walk through the doors at Jerry’s, the cook waves at them, Whiskey’s never been sure if he’s Jerry or not. 

They slide into one of the booths. The waitress who serves them looks like she can’t be much older than any of them are. 

Tango orders a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake, Ford orders a plate of fries and strawberry and Whiskey orders a turkey burger with water. 

` “Bruh,” Tango says, “You’ve got your college metabolism right now, why don’t you use it?”

Whiskey shrugs, “I like turkey.”

It’s actually the only thing Whiskey’s tried. He picks one thing and sticks to it. 

“Man that game was rough,” Tango rests his arms on top of the booth, stretches out. 

Ford nods,”There were a couple times I had to look away. Poor Bitty.”

Whiskey nods halfheartedly. The things they were saying to Bity are still fresh in his brain. 

“I’m glad Dex stepped in,”Ford says. 

“Oh he showed that bastard. He was right though, motherfucker should have gotten a misconduct.”

Whiskey stands up, “Bathroom,” he says. 

The buttons on his shirt are starting to feel tighter and tighter as he walks away from the table. He pops the one below his collar. Grabs on to the sink in the bathroom. Doesn’t look himself in the eye. He runs the water until it’s cold, let’s it wash over his wrists until his hands don’t feel numb anymore. 

The thing that’s killing him, the thing that bugs him him the most, is that he was just standing there. Letting Bitty take the heat. Whiskey got to stand there, anonymous, safe. And Bitty, well Bitty was the victim of at least a couple attempted murders on the ice. 

Whiskey’s like Bitty. Like it or not. Whiskey’s like Bitty. 

He hears the door open, and he sees Tango behind him in the mirror. 

“Ford didn’t wanna come in on account of it being the men’s room, but she wanted me to check on you.”

Whiskey nods. It’s a hollow expression. 

“Are you alright?” 

Whiskey just shrugs, maybe he’s alright. Maybe he’s not. 

“It’s not the scrabble word right? I didn’t mean anything by it… it was just a good score.”

“What?” Whiskey flashes back to the bus  _ queers,  _ And he laughs, “Nah dude.”

“Okay, thank god.”

Ford walks in, patience finally wearing through. 

“Whiskey are you alright?” She asks. 

Whiskey nods, “I think so.”

“Okay because Tango thought he broke you and he wouldn’t tell me why.”

Whiskey looks at Tango who looks sheepish, still. And Ford who looks concerned but still self assured and he thinks that these are the best friends he has here. He hasn’t been to the lax house since he ended it with Chad. 

Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot. A trio. 

Ford sits on the counter and looks down at Whiskey. 

“D’you wanna talk about it?” She asks. 

Whiskey shrugs, “I think I’m a mess,” he says, “And I feel like shit all the time because I treat people like shit and it feels like I’m lying all the time and I’m pretty sure I like dudes. So yeah,” Whiskey says. 

Ford slides off the counter to hug Whiskey tight. His chin rests on top of her head but she doesn’t let go. 

“Oh Whiskey,” she says into his shoulder. 

“Feel like shit,” Whiskey says. 

“Can we talk about it at the booth, I’m hungry,” she says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey answers. 

Tango follows. They slide back into the booth where their food is already sitting. Whiskey looks down at his turkey burger and eating suddenly feels like his own personal triathlon. 

Ford grabs his hand and rests it on top of her thigh, squeezing his hand tight. 

“I know you’re like a robot sometimes, but it’s okay to not be for a little bit.”

“Are you gonna make me do one of those theatre-y exercises where you try to reveal my trauma and get me to talk about my issues.”

“I did that once,” Ford says on the defense.

Whiskey sighs, he picks at the top of his turkey burger. 

“I was hanging out with the lax guys because I was hooking up with one of them,” he admits to Ford. 

Tango nods. 

“I’m gonna skip past the fact that you told him and not me and try not to be offended, so go on,” Ford says. 

“Well i haven’t told Tango this part and it makes me look like the worst motherfucker in the whole world.”

“We all do dumb shit,” Tango offers. 

“I went over to his place the other day and I was just the worst,” he says. 

He swallows his pride and looks over at Ford. 

“I can’t say I broke up with him because we were never doing more than messing around but… I don’t,” He holds his fists out in front of him, “I just feel like,” he sighs, “Fuck.”

Ford puts her arm around him, Tango looks up from his fries and squeezes his shoulder. 

“I didn’t like him as much as it seemed like he liked me, I freaked.” he says. 

Ford puts her head on his shoulder and Whiskey wants to run. He wants to run far away from the friendship and the caring that he doesn’t feel like he deserves. But he stays, he stays and that’s a good first step. 

“Everyone has an ex that they feel bad about,” Ford says. 

“I don’t” Tango looks up from his burger and says. 

“Tango shut up,” Ford smacks him in the back of the head with her menu. 

:”Am I a bad person?” He asks. 

‘You did a bad thing,” she says.

Whiskey nods. And he feels better, almost instantly, so instantly that he wishes he had the full truth to tell them. That he could do that, but he can’t. He won’t. 

So he lets Ford convince him to finish her milkshake and he eats two bites of the turkey burger. 

It’s snowing when they walk out of the diner. It’s the nicie kind that just settles on the ground and sparkles. Tango sticks his tongue out and instead catches two snowflakes right in the eyes. He sputters and frowns. Ford and Whiskey can’t contain their laughter. 

“Hey, who’s the one driving you two home,” Tango turns to point to them.

He catches his foot on a wet patch and slips. Whiskey reaches out to catch him but he ends up stumbling forward, pulling Ford with him. 

They end up a laughing heap in the parking lot. There are tears in Whiskey’s eyes as they clamber to their feet, he holds out his arm for Ford to help her to her feet. 

“If you crash this car because of the snow, I swear to god, I’ll kill you,” Ford says. 

“I am an incredibly capable driver,” Tango says, yanking the drivers door open. 

The blood drains from Whiskey’s face. His feet stop. He looks ahead at his friends. 

“M’gonna walk,” he says. 

“Huh?” Tango asks. 

“Just uh… go without me. I’ll walk.”

“Whiskey, it’s snowing,” Ford says, “it was a joke, I totally trust Tango and the roads are already being salted.”

“I’m still gonna walk,” Whiskey says. 

“We’ll come with you then,” Tango offers, not even taking half a second to think about it. 

Ford agrees, nodding her head sharply. 

She puts her arm around Whiskey’s waste and they trudge back to campus. Whiskey, remembering how the breathe with Ford’s arm around him, holding him steady. Tango, a few steps in front of them kicking up flurries of snow. Ford lets go of his waist and bends down, she picks up a clump of snow and hurls it at the back of Tango’s head. 

“You absolute nerd!” Tango shouts, he runs ahead then turns to kick snow at the two of them. 

Ford jumps onto Tango’s back while Whiskey pelts them with snowballs. She tackles him into a snowbank, giggling the entire time. Whiskey watches Tango wrap her up in a hug and then shove snow down the back of her coat. She shrieks. 

Tango and Ford hug Whiskey before he taps into his room. 

“Thanks for not making that weird,” Whiskey mumbles to Tango. 

Tango shrugs, as if walking Whiskey back to the dorm in the middle of the night in sub zero temperatures was the simplest most logical course of action. 

“It was a nice walk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im having fun writing, i hope you're having fun reading, i promise Whiskey and Kent are gonna hang out more next chapter


	13. White light in your arms tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey's never skated on the pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from arms tonite by mother mother

Whiskey doesn’t go to class of Thursday for a handful of reasons. The first is that it’s still snowing and Samwell never shovels the paths until well after lunchtime. He’s a kid from the sun belt, and even though he’s spent enough time dealing with the snow, doesn’t mean he has to like it. The second is that his professor doesn’t take attendance and posts his lecture notes online, so there’s really no point. The third, is that at least three times last night, he woke up with a start and didn’t go back to sleep for at least an hour. There are bags under his eyes when his alarm goes off. 

He gets out of bed, because he knows he might stay there all day if he doesn’t do it right this second. There’s a set of dumbells under his bed. So he pulls them out and does whatever it takes to get his head on right. 

He feels sweat on his brow as he does what feels like (and very well might be, he doesn’t count) his thousandth push up. It’s 10 a.m. Which is when his lecture would have ended, so he showers, gets dressed. 

There’s a text from Kent waiting for him when he’s back. It’s a real text, not a snapchat. Whiskey didn’t know what to save Kent’s contact name as, didn’t want to risk someone seeing the name over his shoulder and asking too many questions. 

**KP:** **hey. I dunno what you want to do, but i’m excited to hang**

Whiskey smiles, it’s such a sweet thing to say, such a soft thing to say. He’s blushing when he pulls his jeans out of his drawer, phone sitting on top of his dresser, text still open waiting for a response.

**Whiskey:** **yeah, me too**

He wears a SMH hoodie underneath a green flannel shirt, it’s pretty much the only thing he wears in the winter. Usually he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants, his jeans are always wearing out at the seams so he saves them for when he wants to look slightly more presentable. 

**KP:** **I’ll be there in 20 if you’re ready.**

 **Whiskey:** **Yeah :)**

 **KP:** **Bring your skates ;)**

Whiskey waits outside the dorm for Kent, sitting on the back of a bench with his phone in his hand looking down. He’s wearing a pair of gloves and a scarf, his hood is pulled up over his head. 

“Whiskey?” He hears a familiar voice. 

Ford. 

“Oh, hey,” Whiskey manages a deadpan. 

“Why are you outside?”

“I’m waiting for a friend, why are you going into my building?”

“One of the freshman wants me to help her learn lines. I’m stage managing this year.”

“Oh. Wow. Congrats. You must be busy,” Whiskey says. 

Ford shrugs, “I like to be,” it’s clear she’d rather poke at Whiskey than be poked at, “Is the friend Tango or is it someone else.”

“You don’t know him,” Whiskey says. 

Ford sighs, “You’re allowed to tell me if you’re going on a date.”

“It’s not a date,” Whiskey says, he’s pretty sure it’s not a date anyway. 

“Have fun, Whiskey,” Ford says before letting herself into the lobby. 

Kent pulls up a few minutes later in a black BMW. Whiskey can see an Aces cap hiding his face,but it’s unmistakably, Kent. 

Whiskey climbs into the passenger seat, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

“Hey,” Kent says. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says. 

Whiskey didn’t see Kent’s game last night, but he had seen the score this morning 3-1, the Aces only goal had belonged to Kent, he’d watched the highlight. 

“Nice goal last night,” Whiskey says. 

“Not like it ended up mattering much,” Kent says with a harsh laugh. 

“Hey at least you scored,” Whiskey shrugs. 

“Fuckin’ brutal,” Kent agrees. 

“That’s four games for me now.”

Kent nods, he knows the feeling. Whiskey doesn’t have to explain. 

“Do you want to grab lunch to go and then go skating?” Kent asks. 

“Uh. Sure,” Whiskey answers. 

Kent pauses, looks at him for a second and then pulls out of the parking lot. They’re quiet, Whiskey’s trying to push last night’s events out of his head. The game, Jerry’s, the nightmares, but they persist. Every now and then he catches Kent looking over at him. He’s not sure if it’s pity. He is sure that’s not what he wants from Kent. 

They go to a restaurant downtown and pick up something that fits Kent’s meal plan. It’s a burrito place, but they both get the burrito bowls and a bag of corn chips to share. 

“I thought we could see if the pond at Samwell’s frozen enough,” Kent says.

“Oh. Sure,” Whiskey says. 

“We don’t have to,” Kent says. One hand is on the steering wheel, the other is playing with the volume controls on the dash. 

“No,” Whiskey panics and recovers, “that sounds really nice.”

“Cool. I haven’t skated outside in forever,” Kent says. 

“I haven’t ever,” Whiskey admits. 

“Huh?” Kent says. 

Whiskey shrugs. 

“Not like judging you or anything, but you call yourself a hockey player?” Kent’s tone is incredulous, but joking. 

Whiskey laughs, “I’m from Arizona, man. If I want to play hockey outside I need roller blades.”

“Ah so you’re a roller hockey guy,” Kent says. 

Whiskey shrugs, “It’s fun in the summers.”

“I thought skating on the pond was like a  _ thing  _ here.”

“I think it might be. I’m not really in on most of the traditions.”

Whiskey remembers the few times he’s been brought out to the pond with the team. He remembers sitting on the shore, because being from Arizona wasn’t the only reason Whiskey didn’t want to skate on the pond. He doesn’t trust the ice. He’s heard them reassure him time and time again. Tango even offered to let him measure once. But no matter what, he just couldn’t make himself do it. 

That’s the last thing he wants Kent to know, because there’s nothing to hide behind now, no “i’m tired” or “maybe when i finish this reading,” to hide behind. 

Kent pulls their skates and two hockey sticks out of the backseat of the car as they walk down to the pond. Whiskey takes his skate and one of the sticks. 

Kent sits down on the bench near the edge of the shore, Whiskey sits next to them. Kent crosses his legs and brings them up onto the bench. He hunches over his burrito bowl and turns to face Whiskey. 

“Are you going home for the winter break?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods, “We’re not allowed to stay in the dorms over the break. So yeah.”

“Probably not gonna miss the snowstorms, ah?”

Whiskey shakes his head, spoons some beans into his mouth. 

“This is nice,” Whiskey gestures around them, the sun, the relative stillness of the world, “but when it gets windy and the snow starts whipping at your face. Man, what’s the point of even going outside.”

Kent laughs.

“Can’t say I miss that part of living in the northeast.”

“You’re from around here, aren’t you?” Whiskey says before he realizes that’s a weird thing to know, “You played around here I mean. In Quebec.”

Kent nods, “And I’m from New York State. Near Lake Placid,” he shrugs, “Rimouski had absolutely nothing going for it other than the hockey team, but it was better than the middle of nowhere town I’m from.”

“Lots of ice though,” Whiskey points out. 

“Now that was a perk,” Kent laughs, “How do you decide you want to play hockey if there’s no ice.”

Whiskey shrugs, “We went to Coyotes games sometimes, tickets were cheap. I liked the idea of it. They were all going so fast and I wanted to see how fast I could go. There were rinks around, my dad worked in Phoenix. Dad would drive me sometimes. Figured it was less dangerous than football. They let me put the synthetic ice in the basement, I bought roller skates,” Whiskey shrugs, “It’s weird.”

“Are you excited to go back.”

“I miss it sometimes,” Whiskey admits, “There’s only ten thousand people in Sedona and every single one of ‘em knows who I am.”

“I get that. You get into hockey and suddenly everyone starts saying how they thought you were cool in middle school.”

“Exactly!” Whiskey says. “I do miss the weather though. I used to think temperatures in the 40s were freezing, now I can’t wait to see the sun again.”

“It got up to 105 in Vegas last summer, growing up I didn’t think thermometers went that high.”

“I had no idea they went this low.”

Kent crumples up their trash and throws it away. He comes back and picks his skates up. 

“Are those the skates you wear for games?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods, “I’ve got two pairs that I rotate through, but these are the ones I’m using right now. Sometimes people just send me equipment to use, but I like these ones.”

Whiskey watches his fingers pull the laces tight, he does the same. It’s second nature to both of them, slipping into a pair of skates like a pair of shoes. Pulling the laces until he can feel them tightening around his ankles. 

“Can I tell you something that’s going to make me sound really fucking dumb?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent turns to face him, “Yeah.”

“I uh,” he says, “Well I’ve never been skating outside partly because y’know… Arizona. But I’ve been here with the team before and I guess I’m just scared. I don’t trust it.”

Kent stands up, “We don’t have to.”

“No,” Whiskey says, “I want to. Just. If I freak out or whatever, that’s why.”

Kent nods, “It’s been below freezing for almost a month and it’s more than six inches thick,” he says, “but I know that doesn’t make it feel any better,” Kent says, “You can hold my hand if it helps,” Kent says. He’s smirking, but he’s holding his hand out to Whiskey. 

So Whiskey takes it. He pulls himself to his feet. Kent puts his right foot forward, still holding on to Whiskey. 

Is is fragile, at least in Whiskey’s mind. It cracks and it crunches, and every time he sees it he thinks about what’s below it. At Faber, that’s cement, and that’s fine. The worst that happens is he ruins his skates if that ice breaks below him. It’s the water, thinking about what’s down there, how it might swallow him up. 

But Kent’s hand is in his. They’re both wearing gloves, but Kent ‘s grip is firm and grounding. And he can focus on that as he steps onto the ice. The way it makes him feel warm in his chest. The way Kent’s hand feels so right wrapped around his. 

“Do you want to look down?” Kent says. There’s a patience to the way Kent’s holding him. 

Whiskey’s hand shakes, it move up to his shoulder and that sense of dread fills him as he looks down. 

Kent puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“Sorry,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s okay,” Kent says, “Maybe turn around though, because we’re out here, and the ice is solid.”

Whiskey looks back to the shore, “Huh.” 

He shifts his weight and when he doesn’t feel the ice crack, he takes a couple strides. And then he takes off at full speed, he puts his weight into a stop, spraying snow into the air. He hears Kent laughing. He cheers, loudly and it echoes over the campus. 

Kent tosses him one of his hockey sticks and they start messing around with a puck. Kent can do this weird thing where he sort of skips along on the ice, jumping more than taking a stride. It’s goofy. 

“Okay, but what about a race?” Kent says after Whiskey wins the third faceoff in a row. 

“I’ll take you down,” Whiskey promises. 

“You might be young,” Kent says, “But I’m wiry,” he winks. 

Whiskey laughs. 

Kent throws his hockey stick as far as he can lob it across the ice. 

“First one to pick it up wins.”

“You're on.”

“Go!” Kent yells, giving Whiskey a shove as he pushes off. 

“Cheat!” Whiskey yells. 

He throws all of his energy into his strides, almost catching up to Kent but not quite, at the last minute, he dives to the ice, sliding on his stomach towards Kent’s hockey stick. Kent jumps too and they both go careening into a snow drift near the edge of the pond. The stick is in Whiskey’s hand though. 

“I think this means I win,” Whiskey says. 

Kent rolls over and sits up, Whiskey’s resting against his shoulders. They’re both panting, out of breath. The sun beats down on them. Whiskey can see Kent’s cowlick in the sun, springing forward from his otherwise well maintained curls. He wants to touch it, to put it back into place. So he does, he reaches up and smooths Kent’s hair out. Quickly withdraws his hand. 

“Sorry,” he says, “That was weird.”

Kent’s looking down at him, that smirk that he always seems to have on his face is gone, replaced by something else. Something softer, something more raw. His eyes scan Whiskey’s face. Those eyes that change in the sunlight. Whiskey can’t believe that they’re bothering to look at him. 

And then Kent is kissing him, head coming down for the right angle, hand coming up to cup his cheek. And Whiskey is surging into it, chasing Kent’s lips. They’re chapped from the cold and Kent’s hands are rough, and calloused in spots. And Whiskey wants it. He wants the feeling that he’s feeling right now to never ever go away. 

Kent’s pulling away, and Whiskey doesn’t want that, not yet. 

“Sorry,” Kent mumbles. 

Whiskey doesn’t let him finish before he’s wrapping his arm around Kent’s shoulders and pulling their faces together, and he kisses Kent back. He parts his lips and Kent’s tongue slides in between his teeth. Kent’s warm and he’s here and he’s holding Whiskey so tender and so gentle. 

“Connor,” Kent mutters. 

“Kent,” Whiskey says, it comes out a breath. 

“Connor we should talk about this,” Kent says, “What’s happening here.”

“I just,” Whiskey clenches his fist, his head rests under Kent’s chin, “I just want,” he sighs, “I want to kiss you. I just wanted to kiss you. I don’t… you kissed me first.”

“Yeah,” Kent says quietly. 

“If we… we don’t have to…” Whiskey tries to finish a sentence, “Can we talk about this some other time, because right now I just want to keep kissing you.”

Kent nods again, “Yeah, yeah I want that too.”

The skate some more, messing around with the hockey sticks. Kent pulls Whiskey under his arm and they play fight for a minute before Whiskey’s forcing another kiss out of him. There are a million thoughts and feelings that are going to come crashing into him the second he steps off the ice, the second he and Kent have to face the reality of what this is. But now he feels so far removed from the rest of the world. There’s nothing but the two of them out here on the ice. It feels lazy and gentle and warm. 

He doesn’t feel like the water is going to swallow him anymore, but he suspects that has more to do with Kent than with the thickness of the ice. 

The sun sets early these days. He holds Kent’s hand before they say goodbye. Kisses him one more time at the pond because he knows this feeling is going to leave his body by the time they get back to his dorm. 

“I’ll text you,” Kent says, softly as Whiskey gets out of the door. 

He doesn’t look at Whiskey when he speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love to hear what y'all think
> 
> also eventually the updates are going to slow down, but for now i hope you're enjoying reading this as quickly as i'm writing


	14. Can't believe they're coming out of my own mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a life changing, literally amazing, world changing date.   
> Whiskey has to go to class and then he has to go to hockey practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from sucking it out by the shaker hym

Whiskey’s sitting on his bed, running his thumb over his lips trying to remember exactly what Kent’s felt like pressed to his. He can hear the girl he shares a wall with talking loudly to someone on the phone, normally that would bother Whiskey, but he’s focused on precisely one thing right now. Kent. 

Whiskey’s desk is in front of a window that looks out over the parking lot for his building. Sometimes he perches himself on top of it and watches the cars go by. Sometimes it helps him to think. And right now he really needs to think. 

Kent Parson is gay, that’s something he knows for sure. Kent Parson kissed him, also something he knows for sure. Kent Parson had to like him at least a little bit to do that. The small act of touching Parson’s hand through his gloves felt more intimate than anything Whiskey’s ever done in his life. The way that Kent held his face, and the fabric of his gloves brushed against Whiskey’s jaw. Kent had muttered his name, all soft and reverent. 

It feels so good, so why is it so hard for Whiskey to figure out if this is a good idea or not? 

His phone vibrates in his pocket and for a minute he thinks it might be Kent, but Kent’s probably still driving. 

**Denice:** **dinner? I’m still on campus. Tango and Chowder are with me. Be there in 15.**

Ford isn’t the kind of person who puts a question mark at the end of a request. So this is an unusual courtesy. He grabs his jacket, now that the sun’s gone down, the temperature’s dropped a couple degrees and the wind has started picking up. 

He walks across the courtyard to the dining hall where he sees Tango waiting in line at the stir-fry station. Whiskey joins him in line. 

“Yo!” Tango says. Grin on full display, “You look tired,” he says bluntly. 

Whiskey shrugs. 

“Chowder says you weren’t in class, what’d you get up to?” Tango asks. 

“Just tired. Plus I didn’t want to bother with the snow,” he answers. 

“Valid, bro,” Tango says, “I had to dig my car out this morning.”

The cook hands Whiskey a chicken stir fry, he grabs a smoothie from the drink cooler. The cashier swipes his meal card. Ford and Chowder are sitting at a table by the windows. They can hear the wind whipping in the trees as they eat. 

“Where’s Farmer?” Tango asks Chowder. 

“She has an exam tonight,” he says. 

“Oh true true,” Tango says. 

He looks down at his watch, “Speaking of, I said I’d bring her dinner after, I gotta go,” he says. 

“Aw Chowder’s a good boyfriend,” Ford teases. 

“Schyeah,” Chowder snorts. He picks up the takeout container and throws his backpack over his shoulder. They watch him leave the dining hall.

“So Whiskey, what did you get up to after I saw you?”

“I thought you didn’t go outside today?” Tango says, rice falling out of his mouth. 

“I didn’t go to class, I went out,” Whiskey shrugs. 

Ford looks at him with her head tilted sideways but she doesn’t say anything else. 

“Man I’m working on this essay for my environmental sci class and I did not expect this stuff to be so hard.” Tango takes a hard left turn away from talking about Whiskey. Whiskey appreciates Tango’s inability to function in an awkward silence more than he’ll ever know. 

“Science is hard Tango,” Ford says. 

“Yeah but I didn’t think it was  _ this  _ hard.”

“Have you started the readings for the Shakespeare class?” She asks. 

“You’re in a  _ Shakespeare  _ class?” Whiskey asks. 

Tango nods, “Yeah man, I switched into it after I dropped my Tourism class.”

Whiskey will never know what that combination of classes could possibly be required for. 

“It’s actually pretty cool. Ford explains all the jokes to me.”

“Shakespeare is way better when you read it out loud. Next semester we’re doing comedies. The tragedies are kind of lame if you just read them in your head, but you’re going to love the comedies,” Ford says to Tango. 

“You haven’t been wrong yet,” Tango shrugs. 

“I can’t wait to get home,” Ford says. 

She has a bowl of stew in front of her, she spoons a piece of broccoli into her mouth. 

“I’m so tired of snow,” she says. 

Tango rolls his eyes, “You guys are such weather babies.”

“If I can avoid the cold I’m going to do it,” Ford says. 

Whiskey nods. 

“You  **_work_ ** in an  **_ICE RINK!”_ ** Tango shouts. 

“I just want to exist somewhere where I don’t have to wear  **_TWO PAIRS OF SOCKS,”_ ** she shouts back.

Tango laughs

“It’s cozy,” Tango says, lowering his voice because one of the cashiers has given them a sharp and scolding look.

“I think I’m just excited to eat a home cooked meal again,” Whiskey says. 

“Mmm,” Ford agrees. 

“I miss my dad’s cooking more than, probably anything in the world,” he says candidly.  “Aw man, Samwell’s not too bad,” Tango says.

“Tanger, I haven’t tasted a spice in four months.”

“They use pepper sometimes,” Tango says halfheartedly. 

“You did not just say that,” Ford smirks. 

They finish dinner, sitting and talking for a few minutes after they put their plates on the conveyor belt. 

“I’m heading out,” Tango says, he holds up his car keys, “You want a ride Foxy?” He looks down at Foxtrot. 

“I have to grab my bag from the common room in Whiskey’s building.”

Tango raises an eyebrow, “I was helping Caroline learn her lines.”

“Is Caroline the one witih the shaved eyebrow.”

“We’re making her grow it out for the show, but yes,” Ford answers. 

“See you ‘round,” Tango says. 

He jogs through the snow to the parking lot. Whiskey and Ford watch him stumble through a snowbank. 

“Ice is slippery Tango!” Ford shouts after him. 

“Thanks Foxtrot I had now idea,” A now snow covered Whiskey flips them off from the distance. 

Whiskey hand’s are shoved deep in his pockets as he and Ford shuffle towards the dorms. She elbows him, looking up from her scarf. 

“So how was your date,” She singsongs. 

“It wasn’t a date,”

Ford raises an eyebrow. 

“Denice,” He warns. 

“Okay, okay,” she says. 

Whiskey wants to keep the afternoon he’s just had with Kent sacred. He wants to keep it private. It helps that telling anybody about Kent could ruin his career. 

“You know that no one’s going to care if you’re not straight? Right?” She asks. 

Whiskey taps his card against the sensor by the doors and lets Ford in before him. 

“I know they’re not going to be assholes,” he says, “I just don’t want to be the bisexual hockey player… or the gay one, still working on that part,” he runs his hand through his hair, “It’s just- I like space. I want space to figure all this shit out.”

“Jack came out.”

“Yeah, and have you seen the checks him and Bitty take now? You’re not on the ice, you don’t hear the shit people say to Bittle.”

“There are people who write him letters though. Jack took pictures with those kids with pride flags at the cup parade.”

“Yeah, they have a good story though. They kissed centre ice. They got to spin the story.”

“ _ Spin the story?  _ You really are paying attention in class.”

Whiskey laughs, “I guess. But y’know. They get to make the story about the fact that they’re in love. It’s not about nuance or labels or sexuality or homophobia, it’s just ‘hey look, these two dudes kissed, Jack said he has a boyfriend, oh look Stanley Cup, that’s nice!’ It’s not that simple right now.”

“Straight people don’t have to make everything simple,” Ford points out. 

They’re climbing the stairs now, almost at the third floor. 

“Straight people don’t have to tell people they’re straight.”

“Oh yeah, yeah I guess,” Ford says. 

Whiskey opens the door to his floor and lets Ford into the common room. 

Ford picks up her backpack. Caroline is still sitting on the floor with a green highlighter in her hand. 

“Hi Whiskey,” She says quietly. 

He’s seen her around at a couple of the events their RA has dragged them to. 

He waves his hand. 

“I’ll see you at rehearsal,” Ford says to Caroline.

They close the door behind them. 

“I hope you find a way to spin your narrative,” Ford says as she hugs him goodbye. 

“Thanks,” he smiles, resting his chin on top of her head. 

“Get some sleep,” he reminds her. 

Ford chuckles, “Thanks Whiskey.”

Whiskey makes it to class on time the next morning. He’s tired and he’s not thinking about the lecturer who’s talking about personal branding on twitter as a concept. But he’s there, and that counts, at the very least. He sits in the back with his sweats on, and his hoodie pulled tight over his face. He texts Kent. 

**Whiskey:** **hey**

He can’t think of anything else to say. Well he can, he can think of about a million things he wants to say, none of them are good enough. None of them make sense. 

**KP:** **you’ve gotta stop texting in class**

 **Whiskey:** **ha. I’ll do that when they make class worth listening to. Or they make a class about how to break a scoring slump**

 **KP:** **you’re not doodling hockey plays in your notebook or something right?**

 **Whiskey:** **no, just you’re average zoned out sophomore**

 **Whiskey:** **good luck tonight, btw.**

The Aces left for their Florida road trip this morning. They play the Lightning tonight and the Panther tomorrow.

 **KP:** **thanks. We’ll need it.**

 **Whiskey:** **don’t say that**

 **KP:** **They’re hell bent on keeping that win streak alive, plus they all hate me**

 **Whiskey:** **Warranted or unwarranted.**

 **KP:** **probably warranted tbh**

Whiskey covers his laugh with a cough. The business major in front of him turns to shoot him a nasty look. 

**KP:** **What’s Samwell teaching you today**

 **Whiskey:** **social media branding**

 **KP:** **lame**

 **Whiskey:** **tell me about it.**

 **KP:** **Kit made toast this morning**

 **Whiskey:** **kit did fucking what?**

 **KP:** **she made toast.**

 **Whiskey:** **I’m gonna need proof on that one**

 **KP:** **she did it before i was awake**

 **Whiskey:** **so like… you woke up and there was just toast**

 **KP:** **she was eating it but yes, i live alone so like....**

 **Whiskey:** **you realize this means she could definitely burn down your house right?**

 **KP:** **If I go out because my cat wanted toast, then that’s what happens.**

Whiskey hears the rest of the class shuffling to put away their books. He does the same. The first to escape the mass of students.

**KP:** **I’ve really got to teach her to close the bread bag though.**

 **Whiskey:** **I hope you realize your cat has been the highlight of my shitty morning.**

 **KP:** **what’s making your morning shitty?**

 **Whiskey:** **just the fact that I’m awake and moving and dunkin wasn’t open before class started so my brain feels like TV static**

 **KP:** **Get some caffeine in you.**

 **Whiskey:** **I am already on my way.**

He sends Kent a picture. 

_Parserbaby:_ _I’m sorry, is that, black coffee_

 _ConnorWhiskey:_ _yes_

 _Parserbabey_ _do you have tastebuds_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _it’s going to be gross no matter what i put in it_

 _Parserbabey_ _do people still make that’s what she said jokes, because uhhhhh_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _asshole_

 _Parserbabey_ _that would be the crux of the joke, yes._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _don’t you have a morning skate or something_

 _Parserbabey_ _;)_

Whiskey shows up for practice at 6. Bitty’s already on the ice so he gets changed fast. Hall has them out doing drills. Blue line to blue line. It’s hard work, it’s gruelling. It’s punishment for not being good enough. 

Whiskey has a pretty good sense of what his body can do, but he still likes to push. He likes to feel his legs burning and his lungs aching, and then he still tries to go farther. He’s flushing his system, clearing his head. Whiskey and Bitty are the last men standing when Coach blows his whistle.

“Nice work boys,” he says, “Forwards over here, D-men you’re with Murray. Chow, get in net.”

The ice is functionally divided in half as Murray and a few other members of the coaching staff start their defense drills. 

“You win hockey games by scoring goals, and recently, we have been doing less and less of that,” he says. 

He pulls out his whiteboard and starts drawing x’s and o’s on the whiteboard. Whiskey sneaks a few past chowder as they all take their shots, eventually Murray brings the d-men back over to add pressure to the drill. 

Practice is over by 7:30, but Whiskey doesn’t get off the ice right away, he skates over to Coach Hall. 

“Does anyone have the ice booked, sir?”

Hall shakes his head, “Don’t wear yourself out, Whisk,” Is all he says before he tosses him a puck. 

The lights go out above the stands eventually. He can see the stars twinkling over the lake through the glass windows at the end of the rink. Whiskey has to score, he has to make himself remember before it’s too late. Everything feels like it’s happening too late. So Whiskey starts with the basics, drops the puck at the blue line and skates towards the net. Takes a shot. It goes bardow and in. Eventually, he sneaks back to the equipment room and pulls out some bright green pylons. He skates until he falls, out of breath, out of energy. Sweating in his equipment.

But he feels strangely better, like he’s actually managed to do something productive with his time. 

The air is cold on his face, the ends of his freshly washed hair freeze as he walks out of Faber. His dorm is literally three blocks from the rink, but his legs are heavy from exertion and his entire body is sore. He knows Tango would drive over and give him a lift if he asks, but he walks anyway. It’s nearly eleven, he realizes when he finally turns his phone back on. He sees the live score of the Aces game pop up on his phone. 2-2 heading into a shootout. He puts his earbuds in and sits down on one of the benches by the pond. He hits play on the live video feed. 

The Aces first skater is just about to shoot and it’s not Kent. He doesn’t score. Neither does the Lightning’s shooter. 

The second Aces skater takes his place and it’s not Kent either. He scores. 

The Lightning shooter doesn’t. Score. 

Jeff Troy shoots for the Aces next. He can see the entire arena holding their breath. He misses and they let out a cheer. 

Kent watches the shootout head to a fourth round, and then a fifth round, and a sixth round. The Aces win it in the seventh, but not once did Kent step up to the line. Whiskey scans the Aces bench as they clear off into the dressing room. No Kent. So he opens the NHL app, and checks the headlines. 

**Parson will not return for the third,** is the most recent update from the Aces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it really a cliff hanger if I'm going to end up posting the next chapter by tomorrow?  
> Also Ngozi said "Ford is a stage manager" and I immediately knew EXACTLY what kind of person she is, and I love her with all my heart


	15. I see nothing for miles and miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent's hurt, and all of a sudden everything feels very very big

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from All we every know by the head and the heart  
> (tw for descriptions of a hockey injury that involves a lot of blood)

Whiskey holds it together pretty well until he gets back to his room. He throws his bag at his bed and sit on the floor. The video is still playing on his phone. They cut it at the beginning so he can’t see exactly what went on before that led the the fight, but Kent’s shoving a guy, and the guy’s shoving back. Kent’s smirking, clearly not looking to start a fight, just to be kind of a shit disturber. The other guy doesn’t look that serious about it. Then the guy slips, and Kent falls, and they get tangled into each other and the guy’s skate catches him in the arm before his head hits the ice. Kent falls forward, clutching his wrist . The arena is silent except for Kent’s occasional cries of pain. A trainer has to run onto the ice to help him up. He doesn’t even try to sit back on the bench, running down the tunnel with the trainer behind him. There’s blood on the ice. 

It’s been an hour since the end of the game and he hasn’t moved. He’s just sitting there staring as he refreshes the twitter page. Hoping that someone knows something he doesn’t. Someone zoomed in on Kent’s arms and cropped it so that Whiskey can see the blood pooling in his gloves, falling to the ice. He assumes the worst because how can he not. When he calls Kent, he doesn’t pick up, why would he?

He’s  _ so far.  _ The world feels so small when everyone answers their phone. It’s never felt bigger than in this moment. 

He turns ESPN on his laptop. There are two panelists sitting behind the desk. Whiskey recognizes them as the ones always on the late shift, a blonde woman and an older man with salt and pepper hair and a fitted suit. 

“And we can’t not talk about Kent Parson,” she says. 

The man to her left lets out a low whistle, “Oh man, a skate blade to the wrist. Folks, he didn’t even try to play through that, he was off immediately. That has to tell you that it was serious right?”

“Definitely,” The woman agrees, “Obviously it was accidentally, we say Kyle Briar skate over the the Aces bench after the game and ask if Parson was okay.”

“We didn’t get much of an answer in the post game interviews, but we’ll throw to those now.”

The Aces coach is standing at the podium, one of the reporters asks for an injurt update. 

“Well Parse is a tough guy, we’ve got faith that whatever this injury turns out to be, he’ll be back on the ice as soon as he can. He’s getting checked out right now.”

That helps, a little. Knowing that Kent is at least alive and breathing somewhere. 

The panelists start talking about wrist protection. 

“You’ve gotta think the NHL is going to look into making that mandatory,” the woman says. 

“If I know those guys, they’re never going to agree to that. It’s a tough league.”

“There’s a difference between tough and idiotic.”

“Oh come on, we’re less than 30 years removed from guys not playing with helmets. You’re not convincing anyone to add extra equipmennt.”

“This could have been life threatening,” she points out. 

They pivot as Whiskey climbs into bed. 

“We also have to ask the question. How does this affect the Aces cap space, if Parson goe on LTIR…”

They start talking about Kent like he’s a number rather than a person and Whiskey zones out. He’s not sure if he falls asleep or just lays there with his eyes closed.

His phone lights up around 2am.  **KP**

He answers before it even has a chance to ring. 

“Kent,” he says, hoping desperately to hear Kent’s voice. 

“You called-”

Whiskey cuts him off, “Are you okay? I got back from practice and then I watched the shootout and you didn’t shoot and then I saw the video… I just needed to know.”

“I’m okay,” Kent says, his voice is low. 

“Okay. I’m glad.”

Yeah. I’m in the hospital and stuff but I’m fine. I should be out soon.”

“Your wrist… that was. It was scary.”

“Yeah for me too. Honestly I thought I was a goner for a minute there, but I’m okay. I split my chin open on the ice as if taking a skate to the wrist wasn’t bad enough. You still gonna think I’m pretty with a dumbass scar.”

“I never told you I thought you were pretty.”

Parson’s quiet. 

“But yes. I would.”

“I’ll send you a picture.”

Whiskey gets a snapchat a few seconds later. Kent, in a darkened room. Phone light shining on his face. There’s a bandage on the bottom of his chin and bags under his eyes. Whiskey can see the top of a hospital gown on his neck.

“I’m out until at least the New Year. They’ve got me in for wrist surgery on Sunday. Sliced through one of my tendons.” he sounds borderline heartbroken about this fact. 

“I’m sorry,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s not your fault. Are you okay?” Kent asks, “there was like an hour between when you called.”

“Oh. Uh.” Whiskey stammers, “I didn’t really know what to do. I always think the worst so…”

“I’m okay,” Kent reassures him. 

“Yeah, I know that now. I’m like relieved and shit. I want to punch the guy who did that to you.”

“Briar? He’s not really a bad dude, we were chirping at each other all night. We were bound to do something dumb.He didn’t mean to fall.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Called me a fucking nerd a couple times,” Kent laughs, Whiskey hears the sharp inhale that comes along with pain. 

“Nothing like…”

“You want to know if he called me a faggot and that’s why I grabbed him?”

“I didn't know you were the one to grab him… but yeah.”

“No, he didn’t,” Kent says, “I told you he’s not a bad dude.”

“Yeah well,the standards are pretty low.”

“He was in the O while I was in the Q. He was chirping at me about my cat.”

“You got into a fight to defend your cat’s honour?” Whiskey says.

“Not entirely, but like a little. We weren’t trying to start a fight, just a little shoving. It’s hockey, Connor. We bleed sometimes. Most of the time actually. He texted me after, told me he owes me dinner. I told him he owes me his wrist. I think he feels pretty bad about it.”

“I know but,” Whiskey realizes that his fist is clenched, “I don’t know. I didn’t like that you were hurt and I couldn’t do anything.”

“I wish I was closer,” Kent says, it’s soft and breathy, almost like he’s hoping Whiskey won’t hear him, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Whiskey says instantly, “Are you alone?” he asks. 

“Yeah. The GM came by, coach too. There was a whole parade of suits in here, I finally managed to convince them I’d survive the night alone.” he laughs. Whiskey doesn’t. 

“I will. By the way. It’s not a deep cut. Not like, life threatening.”

“Still wish you were closer.”

“What would you do if I was?”

“Like how much closer?”

‘Like right next to you.”

“First I’d wonder why and how you got into my bed,” Whiskey says, a joke on his lips

“Ha.” Kent sounds almost disappointed,

“Then I’d kiss you,” Whiskey says immediately. 

“Oh,” Kent says, “Yeah. I uh. I want you to do that.”

“Is there anything else you’d want me to do,” Whiskey says, toeing to find out where the line is. 

“Yeah, I could think of a couple things,” Whiskey can practically hear the smirk on his lips. 

“I uh. I want to touch you,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. Whiskey hears rustling, Kent’s sheets probably. 

“ _ Touch me  _ Touch me?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey whispers. 

There’s something that feels so sneaky about this to Whiskey, scandalous and silly. Like at any second his mom might walk in and catch him with his fingers playing with the waistband of his sweatpants even though she’s miles and miles and miles away. 

“I wanna feel you. Your were so warm when we held hands. I wanna know what else is warm. I wanna kiss your neck and feel your chest and the uh… the muscles in your back.”

“Yeah Connor that sounds nice.”

Kent’s breathing a little heavier, Whiskey stuffs his hand into his pants. 

“Are you?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says on an out breath. 

“Thinking about you touching me,” Kent’s breath hitches. 

“Yeah, me too.”

“Connor,” Kent mutters under his breath. 

Whiskey comes with Kent’s name in the back of his mouth, imaging the feeling of Kent underneath of him, his strong thighs, capable arms. He listens to Kent’s breathing slow on the other end of the phone.

“That was uh…” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Damn.”

“I don’t wanna, like, keep you up or anything,” Whiskey says. 

He hears Kent yawn, “I should probably pass out soon.”

“Yeah me too.”

“I’m gonna watch your game tomorrow night,” Kent says. 

“Maybe I’ll score for once.”

Whiskey gets up from his bed to clean up, he washes his hands, still talking to Kent. 

“Then you’ll hear me cheering from Tampa.”

Whiskey yawns. 

“Goodnight Connor,” Kent says. 

“Goodnight, Kent.” Whiskey answers

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he tries to go to sleep and has to force himself to take in some air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent, in the hospital, one working arm: "now is the perfect time to have phone sex with Whiskey'


	16. Never in the moment, never giving enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samwell is playing their last game of the semester and if Whiskey doesn't score he thinks he might die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is nearly 4500 words whoops  
> title is from Why am i like this by orla gartland :(

Samwell is about to play their final game of the semester and Whiskey wants to break his slump before he leaves for winter break. 

He gets to Faber early for the 2 p.m. start. It’s a school game, elementary schools from around the neighbourhood are going to pile into Faber on a field trip. Whiskey doesn’t want to be the guy who lets them down. He’s sitting on the bench in his compression shirt and a pair of sweatpants, just stretching, taping his stick. He’s switched from white tape to black tape two games ago, he’s switching back for this game to see if that helps. There has to be something he hasn’t thought of. 

Samwell recruited Whiskey because he could score. They gave him a scholarship, they paid for his housing, the welcomed him and gave him a stipend for his equipment, and all of that was done under the assumption that he was going to score. He doesn’t understand what happened either. He was looking to break Jack’s record when the season started, where did that go? Now he feels like a bust. What does it even matter how much you scored if your team didn’t make it past the first round of the ECAC. 

Now Whiskey’s worried about missing the playoffs entirely. 

He hears footsteps behind him, he turns expecting to see Bitty, but it’s Tango. 

“You’re never early,”

Tango shrugs, “Figure I’d spend as much time at Faber as I could before we have to leave for the holidays. It’s nice in here.”

“It sure is something,” Whiskey says. 

“Man it beats the barns I used to play in.”

Whiskey nods, “You ready to meet some kids?” Whiskey asks. 

“Oh hell yeah,” Tango smiles, “kids love me and shit. 20 years worth of being the oldest cousin in an Italian family has prepared me for this moment.”

“How do you even talk to a kid?” Whiskey asks. 

“They’re just like… smaller people,” Tango says, “Don’t say fuck or shit around them and you should be fine.”

“You learn that in your youth studies class.”

“Among other things,” Tango elbows him in the ribs

“I don’t wanna mess this up, man,” Whiskey mutters.

“It’s just a matty game, bro. And before Christmas, I doubt they’re gonna be  _ trying _ ”

“It still counts for points in the standings. We’re not in a playoff spot.”

“We’ve got games in hand,” Tango says, “You know our season is back-heavy.”

“Still,” Whiskey says, “Last year we were…”

“Last year was a different team on a different schedule,” Tango shakes his head. 

“How are you so chill about this?” Whiskey asks. 

“Dunno. Hockey’s not like, my Thing.”

“Your Thing?”

“Like I love it, and don’t get me wrong being on this team is amazing and I want to be here. But it’s not like my calling or anything. I know my career is over after college.”

“Don’t say that man.”

“I’m not bummed about it. I don’t  _ want  _ my career to go on after college. Hockey’s done everything it was supposed to do for me.”

“I guess I just can’t imagine not wanting more.”

“Yeah because you’re built for it. Being a pro athlete is hard as shit, I never wanted that.”

“Nah, if I was built for it I’d already be there,” Whiskey shakes his head. 

“You’re so hard on yourself, man,” Tango blows air through his nose and picks up one of his sticks to start taping it. 

Whiskey shrugs

“You  _ chose  _ to come here, man. Just trust it was the right choice.”

He tells everybody that he came to Samwell to make his parents happy, that they wanted him to at least try for an education before he went pro. But that’s not the truth, his parents wanted him in the NHL more than anything. It was Whiskey who laid in bed, who didn’t play hockey for a full year. Coming to Samwall wasn’t his choice, but he feels like giving up was. He doesn’t tell Tango this. He doesn’t know how.

“Are you taking an optimism class too, what the hell?”

Tango shrugs. 

“My brother always said I was too stupid to be a pessimist.”

‘’I think I hate that,” Whiskey says. 

Tango laughs. Someone’s knocking on the glass behind them. They turn around and see Ford with her hands pressed to the glass. 

She gestures for them to come around to the stairs where she won’t have to shout to them. 

Whiskey and Tango swing around. He notices that Tango’s not wearing shoes all of a sudden. There’s no reason to ask about it. It’s Tango, it makes enough sense. 

“I need your help.” 

She runs down the stairs. Whiskey and Tango share a puzzled look and follow her down the hallway. She opens a storage closet and inside is the Samwell mascot costume, Wellie, propped up against the wall. Whiskey turns his head. 

“I need you to help me get into that thing,” she says. 

Whiskey and Tango look at each other, at the deflated costume on the floor, then at a panicked Ford and then they laugh. Gut busting, unhinged laughter. Tango doubles over, hands on his knee, wheezing. 

“No fucking way!” Whiskey says. 

“The guy from the spirit squad cancelled, it’s an emergency. The kids need a mascot.”

There’s a look in Ford’s eye, furious determination. Whiskey and Tango don’t dare try and stop her. 

“Foxy that thing is cursed,” Tango says, helping Ford into the costume. 

It’s a well with arms.A well with arms and eyelashes. And now, a 4’11” 19 year old inside. 

“How you feel?” Whiskey asks. 

Ford’s response is muffled but she gives a thumbs up. 

“S’wawesome,” she says in a flat voice. 

Tango and Whiskey fall into a fit of giggles.. 

The closet door flies open, Bitty’s standing there. 

“Is that Ford?” He says. 

Ford nods. 

“Oh thank goodness. The kids are here, did you section of the stands for different schools?”

Tango wonders if Bitty realizes he’s talking to a well.

Ford gives him a thumbs up and points at her backpack on the floor. There’s a notebook on top of it. She snaps at Whiskey and he picks it up and hands it to Bitty. It has detailed notes of every single thing that Ford has already done today and has yet to do. 

She pulls off the head piece of her mascot costume. 

“It’s coordinated by colour. I googled their schools and printed the seating assignments on coloured construction paper. The DJ has specific instructions to keep them entertained.

“Now let’s do this.” She puts on the head piece and sets off down the hallway. A member of the arena staff meets her and guides her out the door. Whiskey hears the sound of children laughing and giggling as she approaches them. 

Tango and Whiskey are wheezing for breath, finally letting go of their barely contained laughter. 

“Oh hush, you two,” Bitty shakes his hand at them, “get ready for the game.”

He sees Bitty smiling to himself as he walks away. 

Whiskey’s back in his own head the second Bitty leaves. Ford in the Wellie costume, Tango laughing on the ground, the kids in the stands. None of that matters if he doesn’t score. 

“Let’s go,” he says to Tango, who’s still laughing. 

“Oh, yeah, okay bro.”

Whiskey’s tunnel vision kicks in in the locker room. He doesn’t hear what Murray and Hall say to them,he doesn’t care what Bitty has to say about the kids. He nods when Tango tells him they “got this”. 

All that matters is him, him and the puck, him and the puck and the ice. Him with the puck on the ice scoring a goal. The crowd is louder than usual, the screams higher pitched, but it’s the same. The same place, same puck, same net. 

He taps Chowder on the back of the pads as he skates into his net. Whiskey’s on the ice for puck drop, Bitty’s next to him. He’s smiling at the little kids in the crowd, Whiskey's looking down. The DJ’s voice crackles, louder and deeper than you’d expect it to be from looking at the kid. 

“And now! We welcome Agnes and Hasan from Ms. Marxman’s seventh grade class for the ceremonial puck drop.”

Ford told Whiskey he’d have to do this, that doesn’t make him any less anxious about it. He hates when they roll out the red carpet for shit like this, he’s always worried he’ll trip over it. The kids are small,a girl with glasses and a boy with a green sweater. They’re looking up as they hold the puck in their hands. They’re probably like 11 or 12. They drop it together. 

Whiskey pulls it toward himself and bends over to pick it up and hand it back to them. He steps onto the red carpet for a photo op and hopes it’s not obvious from the picture how much he hates that they have not started playing hockey yet. They finally put away the carpet, he sees Ford in the crowd, massive Wellie costume, standing beside a group of kids taking pictures. There are kids who brought signs, clearly made during art class. Whiskey doesn’t care. None of it matters. 

Fuck a ceremonial puck drop, he cares about the real one. He wins it at first, but he’s separated from the puck by a particularly hard headed shove from a player from Brown. 

“Fuck,” he curses loudly. 

If the kids hear, he doesn’t care. 

Bitty saves the play, throwing a hit of his own to recover the puck. He passes it to Nursey who’s standing at the point. Nursey and Dex give and go, splitting the defense and making space for Bitty. Bitty slides the puck onto his backhand and chips the puck into the net. 

Faber erupts with the sound of thousands of middle schoolers cheering on the goal. 

“Go BITTLE!” One of the kids yells. 

“Atta be BITTY!” Nursey’s shouting as they crash into the boards for the celly. 

“Eat up boys! Ear up!” Dex is yelling at the players from Brown. 

“It wasn’t that great, maybe you should ask your boyfriend for some tips!” One of them shouts back from the bench. 

“Get on the scoreboard then we can talk!” Dex shouts, swinging his leg back over the boards and taking his seat on the bench. 

“Keep yappin!” The Brown player shouts. 

“You and me buddy, you and me!” Dex yells. 

“Pipe down Poindexter,” Hall hits him on the back of the helmet, “Set a good example for the kids.”

“Kids gotta learn to fight,” Dex says through gritted teeth. 

Tango’s on the ice a few shifts later, Whiskey’s hunched over trying to catch his breath. He’d had a breakaway but his shot had gone wide. That’s one of the moments his head will replay when he can’t sleep. 

Tango looks up at the kids banging on the glass behind the opposing team’s net. There’s nothing fancy about his one timer, but it gets the job done. The kids scream again. 

The DJ gets them chanting “Let’s go Wellies” and then the period ends. The mood in the locker room is amazing. Everyone’s congratulating Bitty and Tango, Whiskey included. He puts on a grin and lets himself celebrate too. But there’s a nagging feeling that he needs to get himself on the scoreboard too. 

Hall doesn’t come into the room, he never does when they’re doing well. He just lets them ride the feeling. 

Whiskey loses the first faceoff of the second, and that’s when the shake in his hand starts. It gets worse and worse as the game goes on. And it fucking sucks, because Samwell plays better and better. Tango takes his spot at 1C halfway through the second and Whiskey gets it, Tango’s having an amazing game. He just wishes he was too. He slides down to the third line with Ollie and Wicks. He’s sitting on the bench when the defenseman from Brown checks Bitty a full second after he passes the puck to Nursey. Bitty’s slow to get up but he does. There was no contact to the head. So they let him play. 

“Give him a call you cowards!” Dex shouts at the refs.

The referee shakes his head. They’re going to keep playing. 

So Dex, hot of head, and dumb of ass, starts shoving the guy he’s been shouting at all game. And the guy shoves back. And then Dex is throwing off his gloves and swinging. Whiskey hear Coach Hall groaning behind him. He stands up to bang his stick on the outside of the board along with everyone else, spurring him on. The fight ends with Dex slipping, pulling the defender to the ground with him. They both skate over to the box to the sound of middle schoolers going absolutely insane. 

“Go HOCKEY!” One of them shouts, no doubt having just realized that the players were allowed to fight. 

“What a dumbass,” Nursey says as he sits next to Whiskey on the bench, he’s smiling, which takes some of the bite out of his insult. 

Samwell wins the game 6-0. And not one of the goals belongs to Whiskey when all is said and done. Two of them are Tango’s. Whiskey’s ’s played less than 12 minutes, nearly ten less than he’s used to. 

Brown skates off the ice back to their dressing room, some of them muttering under their breath. Samwell skates out onto the ice and holds their sticks up, saluting the crowd before them. Whiskey’s the last to step off the ice. He looks at his coach. 

“Don’t worry about it Whisk,” he says. 

Then he’s pushing him into the dressing room. Bitty rushes everyone to get showered and dressed quickly because they’ve set up autograph tables and the kids are already lining up. It’s nearly four. 

Whiskey puts on his sweatpants on one of his grey SMH t-shirts and a black hat that’s been at the bottom of his bag for weeks to cover up his still drying hair. 

Bitty sits them all down at the long table. Whiskey sits next to Tango and Dex, Nursey’s on the other side of Dex and Bitty’s at the very end of the table. 

“You think Ford’s having a good time?” Tango points to the Wellie mascot taking pictures with a group of kids. 

Whiskey snorts, and signs the program that a boy’s holding out for him to sign. The entire team’s signed it so far. 

More kids line up to talk to Tango than anyone else. He’s really good at talking to them, his smile seems real, he takes selfies, records videos and asks the kids if they’d seen a hockey game before. He makes sure to invite them to Samwell’s games after the break. He says he doesn’t have it in him to play pro hockey, but he’s a damn good ambassador for the sport regardless. 

There are two girls in front of them now, most of the other kids have lined up for their buses but a handful remain. One of them has a small Samwell flag that they were giving out during the game. 

“Do you usually score two goals?” She asks Tango Handing him the flag to sign

Tango smiles, “Nah,” he says, “It was cool today though. Wanted to put on a show for you guys.”

“Can I get a picture with you and the well?” the girl with the flag asks. 

“Absolutely!” Tango says.

“Yo Whisk, you wanna snap a pic of us?” he asks. 

Whiskey nods as the girl hands over her cell phone. 

“You want in on this?” Tango asks the girl’s friend. She shakes her head and stands next to Whiskey. 

“I’m Connor,” he says to her as he snaps the picture. 

“I know who you are,” she says curtly.

“Oh uh…”

The girl with the flag takes her phone back but keeps talking to Tango, leaving Whiskey with the other kid.

“I’m going to play for Samwell when I’m older,” she says.

“Oh. Cool,” Whiskey doesn’t know how to answer a statement. 

“You didn’t score today,” she says. 

“I noticed,” Whiskey says dryly. 

“That’s why none of my classmates wanted your autograph. They didn’t know that you’re actually like the best player on the team.”

“Uh,” Whiskey says. 

“But my dad coaches my team and he says it’s crazy that you’re not already in the NHL and I agree. Like you had a bad game today but I’ve watched you have really good games and you almost broke Jack Zimmerman’s record last year… is that an Aces hat by the way?”

She stops talking a mile a minute. 

“Huh?” Whiskey takes off his hat and turns it around, there’s a red spade on the front of the baseball cap, he didn’t even notice it when he pulled it out of his bag. There’s no other way it could have gotten there than if Kent had left it there when they’d gone skating. 

“I guess it is,” Whiskey chuckles. 

“That’s so cool!” She says. “I love the Aces. My mom thinks I’m nuts because there are two teams to pick from in Massachusetts but I like the way the Aces play more than the Falcs or the Bruins right now, it’s fiesty, which you probably know. And Kent Parson is the best hockey player under 30 probably so like how could you not! If I was a boy I’d totally want to play hockey in Vegas! That seems so cool. Oh and hold on!”

She swings her backpack off of her shoulder and pulls out her own Aces hat and holds it up. It’s basically the same as Whiskey’s. 

“Can you sign mine?” She asks. 

“I mean I’m not on the team,” he says. 

“So?” she asks, “also how cool would it be if one day you did play for them, like there’s at least a chance.”

Whiskey smiles, “Well then,” he says, “I’ll sign yours if you sign mine. I think you’ve got a chance too.”

She blushes for the first time, and hands over her hat. Whiskey signs the spade with the silver pen the gave him and hands it back to her. Whiskey takes his hat off his head and hands it over to her. She signs her name. The letters are messy and pushed together, but he makes out the first name. 

“Ann?”

“Ann Whittenmore,” she says, “My friends call me dubs. Like ‘ _ W’ _ ” she says. 

“I’ll see you here after Christmas,” he tells her. 

She nods. 

They take a selfie together wearing the Aces hats before her friend pulls her out the door. 

Whiskey looks up and sees that the other kids have left, the two girls he and Tango were talking to have to run to catch up to their classmates. 

“See your not so bad with kids,” Tango claps him on the back. 

“Ah she did most of the talking.”

Whiskey picks up his water bottle and takes a long drink. 

“Hold up,” Tango says, “Where’s Ford?”

“Shit,” Whiskey says and they take off running. 

They pass Nursey and Dex arguing in the hallway about something that won’t matter in 15 minutes. Tango comes sliding to a stop in front of the storage closet (he’s still not wearing shoes.)

Wellie the well is staring at them when they throw open the door. One of Ford’s arms is trying to reach the zipper in the back. There’s a muffled plea that sounds something like “fuck you help me.”

Tango helps her take off the headpiece first and she takes a breath. 

“I want to set this thing on fire,” she says. 

“Let’s get you out of it first,” Whiskey holds down the bottom half of the well while she steps out of it. 

“Kids are assholes to mascots,” she says, “I couldn’t talk for 4 hours! Do you know how much I had to do by pointing and hoping the arena team knew what I meant! A whole fucking lot!” She shrieks. 

“It’s over now,” Tango pats the top of her head. 

“I hate you so much,” she says through gritted teeth. 

“I’ll make it up to you by buying dinner. Annie’s?” He asks, he looks to Whiskey. 

“I’m gonna hang back, see if anyone has the ice tonight,” Whiskey says. 

“Whiskey,” Ford whines, “You played fine.”

“Fine’s not good enough,” Whiskey says. 

“Come on man,” Tango puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“I just wanna get some extra time in, that’s all,” he says. 

“Okay,” Tango sighs.

Tango and Foxtrot walk out the door to the parking lot. Whiskey heads to Murray and Hall’s office. He taps on the doorframe, Murray’s in the process of turning off his computer. 

“Hi sir,” he says, “I was wondering if-”

‘If anyone has the ice booked for tonight?” Murray cuts him off.

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, staring at the floor. 

“Don’t wear yourself out, Whisk,” Hall throws a puck at Whiskey’s chest. He catches it. 

“Thank you sir.”

“Lock the dressing room when you leave?” Murray throws his Faber key ring at him before picking up his messenger bag. 

“Yes sir.”

Whiskey doesn’t bother putting on most of his equipment, just his skates and his gloves. And the one puck that Hall gave him. He skates lazy laps around the ice with the puck on his stick. He’s tired, he’s sore. His muscles are begging for him to just sit down already. He doesn’t though. The lights shut off above the stands and by the offices. He hears the custodians leave for their dinner break. He keeps skating, just around and around, taking shots, pulling them out of the net himself. He sees the sun starting to dip below the lake. The orange fills Faber, bounces off the ice. 

Whiskey sighs. He skates over to the bench and pulls his phone out of his bag. He sits on the boards, skates dangling and he calls Kent. 

Kent picks up the face time request. Whiskey sees him sitting upright in a hospital bed. The fluorescent lights don’t help, but he looks pale. There are bags under his eyes and the bandage on his chin has been changed. 

“Hey,” Kent says.

“Hey,” Whiskey says, “Did your surgery go okay?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Good as it could’ve.”

Whiskey breathes in relief, “I’m glad.”

“Waitin’ for an update on when I’m clear to play but I should have that by tomorrow.”

“Parse, you almost lost your hand,your priority is when you can play next?”

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t have the exact same priority.”

Kent’s right, so Whiskey doesn’t say anything more. 

“I saw your game.”

“Six goals and not one of them was mine,” Whiskey shakes his head. 

“It’s still points in the standings,” Kent says. 

“I need to be better,” Whiskey insists. 

“You’re really hard on yourself,” Kent says. 

“Realistic is what I am,” Whiskey shoots back. 

“Are you still at the rink?” Kent squints at his phone. 

“Oh. Yeah. I wanted to take some shots, skate around a bit.”

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Kent says. 

“I think you’re the one who’s actually hurt right now,” Whiskey smirks. 

“You’re stubborn.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “It’s worth it though, I get this view.”

He flips the camera on his phone and points it at the sunset. 

“That is nice,” Kent says. 

“I do love playing here.”

“Looks cold outside,” Kent says. 

“S’always cold outside.”

“Y’know I was thinking… I’m gonna have a lot of time off the next few months. And Nevada’s not that far from Arizona if you wanted to hang out.”

“I’d really like that. A lot,” Whiskey says. 

He’s looking up at the sunset wondering what it’d be like to be standing next to Kent as the sun went down. To hold his hand, rest his head on his shoulder, put his arm around him. He imagines the two of them wearing shorts and t-shirts standing at the top of one of the canyons as everything around them turns orange and red and different shades of pink. 

Kent’s relaxed against his pillows. Whiskey can see the bandages going up his arm. He tries not to think about him in pain because that’s not helping anyone. 

“You could spend a couple days at my parents’ if you wanted. Sedona’s… it’s really nice actually. I like showing people around. They wouldn’t ask questions if I told them you were my friend from hockey or whatever.”

Kent laughs, ‘Are you implying we’d be doing something to ask questions about?” Kent raises an eyebrow. 

“Well. Maybe,” Whiskey says. 

“Hmm. Good,” Kent teases. 

“I can’t wait to get out of this fucking hospital though. It feels like prison.”

“I’d visit if I was y’know… in Florida.”

“I know you would.”

“It was a school day game. So there were all these kids around. We signed autographs after. I wasn’t very good with the kids, Tango, Tangredi- he was great. Everyone wanted his, which is fair, he scored twice. There was this one kid though, she talked to me while her friend was taking a picture with Tango. She told me you were her favourite player.”

“Kid’s got good taste,” Kent laughs. 

“Said she liked the way you play.”

“I hope she’s not playing like me,” Kent shakes his head, holds up his bandaged wrist. 

“I dunno, she seemed pretty feisty.”

“Am I feisty?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Whiskey laughs. 

“Hey, they’re coming to change my bandage soon and I don’t want you to see how mangled my wrist is, so I’ll text you tomorrow, okay.”

“Yeah okay,”Whiskey says.

“Goodnight,” Kent whispers. 

“‘Night,” Whiskey whispers back. 

Faber feels a lot bigger now that he’s alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the literal worst part of long distance relationships is when they turn off the phone and what once felt like a very intimate space for two people is now a very large space for one person  
> ahahaha no im not projecting. 
> 
> anyway kent and whiskey are gonna make out in the sun belt, so jot that one down


	17. Follow the unknown with something more familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey heads home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from courage by the tragically hip  
> I'm like 95% sure Whiskey is at least a little bit based on Auston Matthews

“I’m going to text everyday, and once a week we have to call each other. I know time zones might be a hassle but I’ll sort it all out, I promise. I’m going to send you both cards so make sure to watch out for them. Oh and-”

“Foxy,” Tango puts his hand on Ford’s shoulder. 

“It’s less than a month, I’ll see you again in January.”

“I know but…” Foxtrot sighs, she wraps both her arms around Whiskey and Tango’s torsos. 

“I’ll miss you,” she says. 

“Gonna miss you too,” Whiskey kisses her cheek. 

They’re standing outside the gate for Ford’s flight. Tango drove them both to the airport the day after their exams finished. 

“You guys are my best friends, you know that right?” Ford says. 

“Course we do,” Tango answers instantly. 

“Sometimes I worry that I haven’t been able to penetrate your weird bro bond.”

“Foxy, you are definitely part of the bro bond,” Tango says. 

“For sure,” Whiskey adds. 

Ford lets out a muffled sob as she buries her face in Tango’s chest. She pulls Whiskey in for the group hug before she has to board her flight. 

She’s the first to go, Whiskey’s flight doesn’t board for another hour. So he sits with Tango outside his gate, waiting. Tango has his feet up on one of the chairs. 

“Any plans?” Tango asks. 

Whiskey shrugs, “I might see Rachel,” he shrugs, “my mom’s gonna cook us a meal when we get back.”

“Is she gonna try to convince you to get back together again?”

“Nah,” Whiskey shakes his head. 

“You know you can tell me shit, right? I get it if you don’t want to but I’m not gonna barf if you tell me you want to go on a date with a dude, or if you already have. Or a chick too. I know you’re still figuring stuff out.”

“If there was something serious going on, you’re the first person I’d tell.”

“Yeah, suck it Ford,” Tango pumps his fist. 

“Shut up,” Whiskey punches him in the arm. 

“I’ll miss you man,” Tango hugs Whiskey one last time, Whiskey rests his chin on his shoulder and squeezes. 

“I’ll miss you too Tony.”

There is no better feeling than getting on a flight wearing a winter jacket, and getting off the flight in a t-shirt. 

“Look at you dressed for summer,” his mom says as she hugs him tight outside the airport. 

She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She has Whiskey’s eyes, deep brown. 

“Grandma and Grandpa are going to be at the house in an hour, you have time to get dressed and shower. 

She kisses him on the top of the head,”And we’re going to mass on Christmas eve.”

“Okay,” he says. 

“Have you gone since last year?”

Whiskey shakes his head, he doesn’t lie to his mother about much anymore, a function of her not asking him how he's doing all that much anymore. He hasn’t been since Easter, when he went with Tango. 

“Hmm,” she says, “Maybe you should go with Grandpa ad Grandma on Sunday, it would make them happy,” she hoists his suitcase into the trunk of the car. 

Whiskey nods, “Yeah. I’d go,” he says. 

Whiskey’s never been super serious about the whole Catholicism thing, he goes to make his mom and her parents happy, and he goes to spend time with Tango, who does take it seriously. 

”I’ve also got something to ask you, actually,” he says. 

“Of course, mijo,” she buckles her seat-belt and pulls out of their parking space. 

“I was wondering if a friend could spend a few days with us before Christmas. He plays hockey, that’s how I know him.”

“Sure, Connor, that’s perfectly fine. More than fine.”

“Okay, cool. Cool,” Kent says. 

“Does he play for Samwell?” 

“The Aces. Actually,” Whiskey says. 

“Oh wow!” his mom exclaims. 

“You don’t have to do anything fancy, it’s fine. He’s just a regular guy.”

“Of course, of course. He does have to join us for dinner at least once, though.”

“Yeah, okay.” Whiskey nods. 

“Are you going to see Rachel this week?” his mother asks. It’s her sneaky way of asking if they’ll get back together. 

“Probably,” Whiskey shrugs, “Whenever she gets back.”

“I always liked you together,” she smiles.

“We’re just friends,” Whiskey says. 

“Of course, of course.”

Whiskey’s bedroom is exactly how he left it. The walls are painted a yellow-y beige. He took down all of his hockey posters and trophies when he was 18, they’re in a box in his closet now, he never bothered to put them back up. There’s a shelf above his bed where his mother keeps his trophy from the year his lacrosse team won state. There’s a framed family photo, a picture of him and Rachel on one of the hiking trails. Her arm is around his shoulder. And there’s a picture of him and Tango smiling with Wellie the well. Bitty posted it to his twitter last year and when Whiskey came home for the summer, it was framed. 

He sets his laptop on his desk. There’s a mug from a fair that he went to as a kid and a few pens. His sheets and bedspread are black. The first thing he does is open his window to let the wind in. 

His dad’s at work and his mom’s in the living room. He flops down on top of his bed and connects to the wifi. 

There’s a video waiting for him from Kent. He watches Kent opening the door to his condo. He hears restless meowing. Kit comes running down the hallway and nuzzles against Kent’s leg. Kent reaches down to scratch her between the ears. 

“Oh you missed me did you?” Kent’s voice is soft and husky as he pets her. 

So knowing Kent's home, he facetimes him. He’s got his headphones in so he doesn’t worry about his mother overhearing the full conversation. 

Kent answers right away. 

“Hey!” he says, “you get home okay?” 

“Yeah.”

“I’m just about to feed Kit,” Kent picks up his phone with his one working hand. 

“I get Swoops’ girlfriend to feed her while I’m on roadies, but I keep her favourite food on top of the fridge so she’s excited for me to get back,” Kent laughs to himself. 

He looks as if he’s about to reach for the cat food with his bandaged arm. He’s in a sling and he looks visibly pissed off by this. 

“Ah motherfucker,” he grumbles, “Okay I have to put you on my counter. One armed bullshit.”

Whiskey can’t help his grin as he sees Kent reaching for the food on top of the fridge. 

“How the fuck do you use a can opener with one hand?”Kent mutters to himself as much as Whiskey. 

“Just use your elbow to hold it or something?” Whiskey suggests. 

“This is bullshit,” Kent groans as he finally manages to pop the top of the can. 

He hears Kit meow. 

“Alright, fucking calm down, I have one arm Kit,” he says. 

He waits for Kent to pick his phone up off the counter. 

“I don’t know if Kit understands the concept of a severed tendon,” Whiskey points out. 

“She can make toast, it’s time she learns about human anatomy.”

Kent leaves the kitchen and goes to sit down on the couch in his living room. 

“How’s home?”

“I just got here, I’ve only really seen my mom.”

“How was the flight?”

“It was fine. A bunch of other kids heading home, some suits. M’gonna try and stay up so I can get back on Pacific time.”

“Call me if you need a distraction?”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

Whiskey rolls over onto his stomach.

His mother calls from downstairs. 

“Connor!” 

Whiskey sighs, “I’ll talk to you later, I think my grandparents just showed up.”

“See you then,” Kent says. 

Whiskey pokes his head out of his bedroom. He sees his mom hugging her parents. They’re speaking Spanish, which Whiskey understands a little bit of, but not a lot. His mom only speaks it with her parents and Whiskey only spoke it in high school Spanish class. His dad knows enough to order at a restaurant. 

Whiskey kisses his Grandmother on the cheek and takes her bag. He offers them seats and pours red wine while the adults talk and does everything that he’s expected to. They don’t talk about anything that matters and that suits Whiskey just fine. His father gets home, his mother gets dinner, his Grandma asks how his degree is going. They talk about hockey briefly. Just long enough for Whiskey to say he’s doing “fine” and then move on. 

He remembers a time when his Grandfather came to every single game he could drive to, when his Grandmother framed his jerseys. When his mother and father told him they were so proud of him because he was going to get drafted in the NHL. Because he was 17 and he already had his life sorted out. 

Now they tell him they’re proud of him. But it’s not the same. He feels like they’re still waiting for him to break again. Sometimes he feels like he’s waiting for himself to break again too. 

They don’t talk about it, and that’s almost worse than if they were fighting. Whiskey’s house is full of whispers. Concerns that no one ever voices. He remembers hearing footsteps outside of his door, his mother pausing, raising her hand to knock but walking away.  They don’t talk about the way they really feel, _“that’s for other people, not us. It’s silly,”_ his mom used to say, _“we’re lucky to have what we have. Don’t complain, be grateful.”_

So when Whiskey broke, no one knew how to ask if he needed to be put together. So they let him stay broken. He loves his family but he still feels broken being here. He still feels like everyone sees it but no one sees. He feels alone in a way that makes his chest hurt and his brain go fuzzy. 

They talk about his season but they don’t mention the goal drought and they  _ definitely  _ don’t mention Jack Zimmerman.  _ “That’s the kind of boy you don’t want to be Connor, keep your head on straight.”  _ he remembers his dad telling him over breakfast one day reading the sports section. 

So Whiskey sits at dinner and doesn’t drink more than one glass of wine because that would raise eyebrows. He sits up straight because slouching would make him look sad. He smiles when he’s supposed to smile and he laughs when he’s supposed to laugh. He kisses his grandmother on the cheek and he makes sure his hand doesn’t tremble when he shakes his grandfather's hand and tells him to “drive safe”. He makes sure to blame it on jet lag when he turns in before 7. He waits until he hears his parents going upstairs to call Kent. 

“Yo!” Kent says. 

“Hey. What are you up to?”

“I’m driving home right now. Swoops and his lady invited me over for movie night and then promptly kicked me out so they could get it on.”

Whiskey chokes out a halfhearted laugh. 

“You good?” Kent asks. 

“Hm, yeah. I’m not distracting you right?”

“No, no. bluetooth,” Kent answers. 

“Okay good,” Whiskey lets out a breath. 

He pictures Kent somewhere on the strip in a convertible with the top down, sunglasses, a hat. Those terrible plaid shirts he always wears. 

“I just feel really weird here,” Whiskey admits. 

“Weird how?”

“It feels lonely, even though I’m not really alone,” Whiskey says, the best way he thinks to phrase it, “It’s dumb. Like it’s not like they’re yelling or reminding me of what a fuck-up I am, but I can feel them thinking it.”

“You’re not a fuck-up,” Kent says with an immediacy that hits Whiskey right in the chest. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey mutters, “I should’ve… I should’ve been in the draft and they all know it, but it’s just one of those things we don’t mention and it  _ sucks  _ because it means they don’t talk about hockey because me going to Samwell isn’t the way it was supposed to go.”

“Trust me when I say that you’re not missing anything by deciding not to sell your soul to the NHL at 18.”

Kent doesn’t let it show often, but every now and then Whiskey is reminded that there’s a depth of sadness in the other man. 

“I guess,” Whiskey says, “Sorry I didn’t mean to make it seem like…”

“Don’t apologize,” Kent says, “I’d feel the same way.”

“I feel better now, you make me feel better.”

“I’m glad.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Talk to you soon.”

Whiskey wishes he could feel Kent next to him again, hear the tenderness of his voice being close to him. Instead he pulls his comforter over himself and closes his eyes. He sleeps, lightly and fitfully, but he sleeps. 

The buzzing of his phone wakes him up. He checks the time, it feels like morning in Boston but the light tells him it’s the middle of the night and his phone tells him it’s 1am. 

**KP:** **weird question**

 **KP:** **but is your bedroom on the first floor**

 **Whiskey:** **yes**

 **Whiskey:** **and what the fuck**

He rolls over and opens his window, there’s no screen in it since he’s on the first floor and low and behold; Kent Parson, backwards hat and all, sneaking across his parents backyard. 

“Aw man, I was gonna throw rocks at your window like an eighties movie,” Kent whispers. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Whiskey hisses. 

“I wanted to see you.”

“Oh my god. How do you even know where my parents live.”

“Snap Maps, you share your location with me.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“So can I come in or not?”

“Oh fuck, yeah. Of course.”

Whiskey steps away from the window and Kent swings his leg over the sill. He uses his good arm to hoist himself through. His other arm is in a sling, which Whiskey’s pretty sure is new. 

“Hi,” Kent says, now standing eye to eye with Whiskey.

“Hi,” Whiskey says, “did you really drive four hours to hang out with me?”

“Yeah,” Kent says simply, “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

If that doesn’t deserve a kiss then Whiskey doesn’t know what does. He grabs Kent by the collar of his black plaid shirt and pulls him to his face. Kent’s just an inch away, he’s smirking, his eyes look gray in the dim light of his bedroom. 

“Oh hello,” Kent says. 

Whiskey carefully avoids Kent’s slinged arm and presses their lips together. Kent’s pushing into his mouth. He sighs into the kiss. 

Whiskey holds Kent’s face in his hands. 

“Thank you for being here,” Whiskey says. 

“You sounded like you were having a rough time

“Thank you,” Whiskey says. 

All he wants to do is kiss Kent. He’s so solid and warm and  _ there _ . They fall into Whiskey’s bed. Kent favours his arm, but straddles Whiskey anyway, his right arm falls onto Whiskey’s shoulder. Whiskey’s hands rest on Kent’s waist, his thumb rubs at the fabric of Kent’s shirt. 

“This my parents’ house Parson,” Whiskey mutters, letting his breath hang on Kent’s neck. 

“I just wanna kiss you,” Kent says, “You gonna stop me?”

“Mm, No,” Whiskey groans and he surges up to tangle his tongue with Kent’s. 

“I hope you know I’m not having sex with you in my parents’ house while your arm’s fucked up,” Whiskey says between kisses. 

“That’s okay,” Kent says, he yawns, Whiskey kisses the side of Kent’s mouth. 

Whiskey has a double at his parents’ house, so it’s not as rough as squeezing into a twin would be, but it’s still tight. They look at each other face to face. 

Kent kisses the tip of Whiskey’s nose. 

“I like having you next to me,” Whiskey whispers.

“I like being next to you.”

“I feel bad for making you drive all the way here, you’re crazy.”

“Nah, Connor,” Kent shakes his head.

“Thank you.”

Kent slings his arm around Whiskey. 

“I couldn’t let you sit here alone thinking about being a fuck-up, which you very much are not.”

Whiskey looks down, he rests his forehead on Kent’s chest. 

“I feel like it sometimes.”

Kent draws circles on Whiskey’s back with his thumb

“Like I did something wrong somewhere along the line and I’m not supposed to be where I am and I don’t deserve the good things so I just focus on the bad things. And I mean…” Whiskey sighs, “You don’t have to listen to me talk about how I’m fucked up. That’s not why you came here.”

“No that’s exactly why I came here,” Kent says.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re taking care of me.”

“I’m not. Connor, I like you. I want to know you. Even the parts you think are fucked up,” He pulls away from Whiskey, brushes his hair off of his face and looks at him, “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Whiskey says.

“And I’ll get it if you tell me to leave or you want me to fuck off. Just don’t do it because you think you don’t deserve someone to talk to.”

Kent kisses the top of his forehead. Gentle, soft, generally really sweet. Like a man in love. Whiskey tries not to think too hard about that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is definitely a parallel of the time jack drove to Bitty just because he was upset because Kent and Jack are the exact same kind of impulsive dumbass tbh  
> ALSO i am from Canada i have never been to Arizona, get ready for some questionable descriptions of geography.


	18. The devils in a rush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent and Whiskey go for a hike. They both open up, but not all the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from Sedona by Houndmouth lmao

When Whiskey wakes up the next morning he finds himself being spooned by Kent Parson. The other man is smaller so Whiskey’s not quite sure how they ended up like that in the night, but he’s not complaining. 

“Fuck,” Whiskey groans. 

“Morning,” Kent rubs his eyes. 

“I have to find a way to explain to my mom why you’re here,” He sits up.

Kent sits up behind him and kisses the back of his neck.

“I’ll just tell her you needed a place to crash,” he shrugs. 

“Yeah okay,” Kent says, “Does she know who I am or anything?”

“Probably vaguely. But y’know, hockey. That’ll be good enough.”

As if on cure, his mom shouts from the kitchen. 

“Conor? Breakfast.”

Whiskey stands up. He creaks his door open.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” he starts with an apology, his mom abruptly sets down the orange juice she was pouring. 

“Connor?” She says almost as a warning. 

“It’s no big deal, just my uh… my friend who I was telling you about was in town and he needed a place to crash last night.”

Kent eases the door open. 

“Morning Mrs. Whisk,” he says. 

“Oh honey! Of course, of course!” She says. 

“This is Kent,” he says. 

“Oh,” his mom says, “Oh! When Whiskey said his friend played for the Aces I didn’t think he meant Kent Parson, here come sit, I made plenty of food.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Kent says. 

Whiskey and Kent perch on the edge of the stools at the breakfast bar while Whiskey’s mom spoons scrambled eggs onto their plates. 

“Whiskey’s father made me watch the video where that,” she points at Kent’s sling, “Happened to you. Horrifying,” she shakes her head. 

“I’m recovering really well,” Kent reassures her while struggling to butter a piece of toast with one hand. Whiskey takes the toast and butter knife out of his hands and does it for him,he sets it back on his plate. 

“Are you planning on staying long, Kent?” Whiskey;’s mom says over he coffee mug. 

“Connor and I were talking about...maybe a few days. If that’s okay with you.”

“We’d love to have you,” Whiskey’s mom says, “I’ll make up the guest room for you.”

“You don’t have to mom,” Whiskey says, “He can stay in my room.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, “We have a perfectly good bed and that sure beats one of you sleeping on the floor.”

“Thank you Mrs. Whisk,” Kent says.

“I’m going to show Kent around after,” Whiskey says.

“That sounds like a great idea,” his mom kisses his cheek again, “Rachel’s going to be home tomorrow if you wanted to introduce your friends.”

“Sounds good,” Whiskey says.

“Alright, you boys be good, I have some work to do in the office,” she says. She takes her coffee and plate of eggs upstairs. 

“I’ve got some clothes you can borrow, then I thought I could show you the trails

“I like a good hike.”

“Good because that’s just about all there is to do around here.”

Whiskey takes Kent back to his bedroom, down the hall and off the kitchen. His father’s office is the only other room in this part of the house and his father’s never home during the day, so he lets Kent crowd him against the door and kiss him.

Whiskey slips out of Kent’s arms and opens his dresser drawer. Kent leans against the door frame and Whiskey would jump him this literal second if he knew his mom 100 per cent couldn’t hear him. Instead her hands Kent a pair of dark grey sweatpants and a deep green hoodie that he’d bought sometime in high school. 

“Thanks,” Kent says. 

He starts unbuttons the top of his shirt and pulls it over his head. There's a picture that Whiskey saw on twitter once, Kent, at his cup parade standing on front of a float, shirtless wearing a pair of cargo shorts and his red and black Aces cap. He stared at it for longer than he could understand why. The point is Whiskey knows what Kent looks like under his shirt. But something about him being there, a few feet away from Whiskey, struggling to get the shirt off over his sling makes Whiskey blush. 

“I’m gonna go grab a backpack to bring with us,” Whiskey mutters. 

Kent nods. 

Whiskey pours himself a glass of extremely cold water and downs the entire thing. He tries not to think too hard about Kent wearing his old clothes and what exactly this says about whatever their relationship is shaping up to be. He finds his old hiking water bottle and fills it from the tap, he slips it into his backpack along with a couple granola bars from the cupboard.

Kent walks into the kitchen with his hand in the front pocket of the sweater. 

“You can drive if you want,” Kent says, “You know where we’re going,” he tosses Whiskey the keys, “I parked up the block so you’re parents wouldn’t be weirded out by the convertible in the driveway.”

“Cool,” Whiskey says, he stuffs the keys in his pocket and throws the backpack over his shoulder. 

“Heading out, mom!” Whiskey shouts up the stairs. 

“Be back for dinner!” His mom shouts back. 

“Alright. Let’s go see some rocks,” Whiskey claps his hand. He closes the door behind him and lets Kent lead him up the block to his car. 

Whiskey lets out a low whistles when he sees it, it’s cherry red, he’s pretty sure it’s some kind of corvette, it looks like the kind of thing guys get when they sign a new contract. 

“I’m not a big car guy, honestly,” Kent says, “I actually didn’t buy my own until after my ELC, so I let Swoops convince me to splurge on something cool.”

“Damn,” Whiskey says. 

“I figure I don’t have to worry about rain too much in the desert.”

Whiskey unlocks the doors and Kent slides into the passenger seat. He’d be lying if he said that cruising around Sedona with Kent Parson riding shotgun in a car that costs more than Whiskey’s college education didn’t make him feel special. 

“It took me so long to get used to seeing cactuses all the time,” Kent says out of nowhere. 

They’re driving through Whiskey’s family’s suburb, past the beige houses and the wooden fences. 

Whiskey laughs, “There’s more green grass at Samwell than in an entire square block of my parents’ neighbourhood. 

Whiskey never drives more than the speed limit, even in a car that seems to be meant for it, even when there’s no one else on the road. Kent doesn’t push him on it. 

“So everything in this town is either made of rock or named after a rock. I’m gonna take you to see a cool rock.”

There are no cars in the parking lot when Whiskey pulls up to the trail access point. He sees a jogger stretching by the picnic tables but no one else is out on a weekday morning in the middle of December. 

“They used to make us come out here for field trips in elementary school as part of the geology unit in science. I can’t remember learning much more than how to avoid the kid who insisted on picking up the snakes.”

“Woah woah woah, you never said anything about snakes,” Kent says, hand still on the handle of the passenger side. 

Whiskey laughs, “They don’t come out in the winter.”

“I’ll trust you on that,” Kent opens the door. 

Whiskey avoids the rock formations that he knows the tourists flock to. Families on vacation like rocks with cool names like “submarine, devil’s bridge. Pretty much every other outcropping was named after Satan himself. sSo he sticks to the unnamed ones, or more accurately the ones only named by the local high school students. There’s a small clearing where he knows people like to go to underage drink. There’s one overlook, nestled back in the trees that he and Rachel once lovingly nicknamed, “the devil’s left testicle.”

He can’t decide if he’s going to tell Kent that. 

It’s an uphill walk and the sun is beating down on them, but it’s not gross out. There’s a nice breeze as Whiskey leads the way. 

“I used to come jogging out here,” Whiskey says.

Both he and Kent are sweating and out of breath as the gravel trail crunches underfoot. 

“Fuck you’re calves must have been huge.”

Whiskey snorts, “Worked for me.”

“We used to get thigh high snow drifts, so I’d build muscle just shoveling the pond before I went out to skate.”

“Was that back home or in Rimouski.”

“Back home. Rimouski got snow but it was the kind that froze on top and fucked your life up for a while.”

“One of our captains last year told us about how sometimes the ice on the roads in Buffalo got thick enough that he could skate in the street. I didn’t believe him till we got our first big storm.”

“A good ol’ nor'easter.”

“Disgusting,” Whiskey says. 

“So how come you never played junior?” Kent asks. 

“I never wanted to,” Whiskey says, “It was so far from home and I felt like I was doing fine down here. I didn’t want to leave my best friend.”

“That’s sweet,” Kent says. 

“We dated in high school. She was always on the road with me when I would play travel. She was like the smartest person in our grade, she’s pre-med now. We came out here a lot. I think we both needed to get away.”

“I get that. Jack and I used to say the same thing. ‘Cept getting away involved a lot more house parties and underaged drinking.”

Everyone in hockey knows about Jack. No one saw it coming at the time, but the overdose laid everything bare on the table. Reporters stuck their noses where they didn’t belong, digging up dirt on hockey’s golden boy. Everyone said he had a drinking problem. Until this point, Whiskey’s never thought about Kent being there, seeing that, being a part of it.

“Rachel and I didn’t do much of that.”

Whiskey’s self destruction was of a different sort. 

“Good,” Kent says, “Good. Nothing good happens at a shitty house party when you’re 17.”

Whiskey wonders if he should ask. He’s heard the rumours and now he knows that they were both capable of it, then he wonders if that’s too much of an intrusion. Kent beats him to it. 

“You want to know if it’s true, don’t you?” Kent says. 

“Yeah. Kind of,” Whiskey admits.

“I mean long story short. It happened.”

They’re both looking forward as they talk, still walking. 

“We were 17. It was fucked up and I still don’t really know how to tell people what we were. I don’t know what he tells people. There are probably two different stories.”

“How can there be two different stories about the same thing?”

Kent shrugs, “I dunno. How much do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Whiskey says without a moment of hesitation. 

Kent’s laugh is dry but he smiles anyway. 

“Junior hockey’s kind of fucked up to be honest. You’re probably lucky you never played. I was so far from home, I was billeting with this nice couple but they didn’t really keep tabs on me too much. I was some dumbass rookie who no one had ever heard of and then they put me on a line with Jack and it worked, so we hung out, roomed together on roadies. Played video games, drove to practice together. Normal shit.” Kent shrugs. 

They step over a tangle of tree branches and green foliage. 

“And y’know when you play Junior and you’re still in school everyone thinks you’re hot shit, so combine that with the fact that Jack’s dad was Bad Bob Zimmerman and we could basically do whatever the fuck we wanted. So obviously we sucked as people, like just the biggest douche bags. Got drunk pretty much every weekend we weren’t playing because we could bounce back by the time we were supposed to be at practice. Then we were drunk one night at a party and I honestly don’t remember much from back then but I know Zimms got into a fight with someone from school and he was so out of it that I had to drag him out the front door. We went back to my billet and he spent the night and we made out. He was my best friend and I was his and we also fucked and it wasn’t like…” Kent sighs. 

He continues, “Dudes do gay shit in Juniors all the time. But like, handjobs that nobody ever talks about. Zimms-uh- Jack and I were intense.”

“It uh. Seems like it,” Whiskey says. 

Kent shrugs, “We were messed up. We  _ knew  _ it was going to end.”

Something stays unspoken between Kent and Whiskey and it’s the way it ended. With Jack in rehab and Kent in Las Vegas

“The draft must’ve been… rough,” Whiskey manages. 

Kent nods, it’s honest, short but not deep. 

“Sometimes I wish I’d waited. I dunno. Vegas was rebuilding when I got drafted. I was barely 19 when they slapped the C on my jersey. Couldn’t rent a car, couldn’t buy my own drinks and the hopes and dreams of an expansion franchise were on my shoulders.”

“I never thought about it like that.”

And he hadn’t, when he imagines the NHL he imagines the glory, the games, the team, he imagines hockey, not everything that comes along with it. 

“They did a really good job of shipping us off. I left my mom’s house when I was 16 and I felt so free. But no one ever told us how to handle that. No matter how old we get they still call us boys. Swoops says it’s because we play a kids’ game but I think it’s because no one teaches us to be men.”

“That’s deep as hell,” Whiskey says. 

“And I can  _ see  _ the difference,” Kent adds, “The guys who come to Vegas after college… they might not be as good at hockey but they know how to be a person. Y’know?”

Whiskey’s not sure he does. 

“You got a cup out of it,” Whiskey points out. 

“Yeah,” Kent says and he smiles about it, “Yeah I did. It was nuts. I couldn’t believe it. 21, winning the cup. Swoops and I felt like we really turned something around in Vegas.”

“I’m 21,” Whiskey says, more to himself than to Kent. A realization that his life is very much not on track. 

“It doesn’t matter when you do it,” Kent says in the way that only a person who's already done it really can

Whiskey walks along the edge of the ridge. He looks out over the canyon. It’s deep brown, and green and he can feel the wind on his skin and the sun on his face. 

“Wow,” Kent says. 

Whiskey opens his backpack and hands Kent his water bottle. Kent takes a long gulp and hands it back to Whiskey.

“I see why you didn’t want to leave this place.”

“Nice isn’t it?” Whiskey smiles. 

He walks over to the edge and sits with his legs dangling. Kent hesitates. 

“Scared of heights?” Whiskey asks, not to make fun, just to know. 

“Scared of falling.”

“Just remember where you are and it’ll be fine.”

Kent sits next to Whiskey. They’re quiet for a while, looking out, looking down, looking up. The sky is so blue here, wisps of clouds hang in the sky. He can hear the wind shaking through the trees, whistling against the rocks. 

Kent looks out at the sky, then back at Whiskey and he slips his hand into his, resting it on Whiskey’s lap. Whiskey doesn’t think he ever wants to let go. 

“Do you ever think about who you’d be without hockey?” Kent asks. 

“I never made any other plans,” Whiskey says. 

Hockey asks for everything. It wants all of you or none of you at all. There’s no room for backup plans. 

“Me either,” Kent admits. 

“Once I decided this is what I wanted to do, everything else revolved around it. We used to go to Coyotes games. Before I even knew how to skate I knew what it would feel like.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’d be happier without it,” Kent says. 

“What?” 

“It’s not the game,” Kent says, “I love everything about the game. Even the parts that bruise me and break me. That shit’s worth it because the game is so good, and so part of me,” he pauses, “But it’s this fucking league, man,” Kent says, “They were gonna trade Swoops when he was 19. And we didn’t even question it, looking back that’s pretty fuckied.” 

Kent rests his head on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“I don’t want to be Zimmerman,” he says, “I don’t need to win a cup and kiss a man at centre ice. I don’t need to do interviews with You Can Play and I sure as shit don’t want kids looking up to me… I just,” he sighs again, “You’re the first guy I’ve kissed since Jack who hasn’t had to sign an NDA.”

“That a compliment.”

“Maybe,” Kent says. 

Of course Whiskey realizes that he has something in common with Jack. Admitting what’s going on with Kent could be enough to end his career. 

“If I kiss you right now, will you make me sign one?” Whiskey says. It’s cheekier than his usual style but it makes Kent laugh and that alone is worth it.

“I think we can get away without one,” Kent says and tilts his face towards. Whiskey pulls him closer and gently kisses him. Kent’s thumb grazes Whiskey’s jawbone. 

The rocks are cold but the sun above them is warm, so they lay beside each other. Kent lets himself close his eyes and Whiskey lies beside him on his side, watching his chest rise and fall, watching the wind move his hair gently. 

Whiskey reaches out to touch his hair, smooths it down where his hat’s messed it up. 

He doesn’t look like any version of himself that Whiskey has seen before. He’s seen pictures of Kent in his happiest moments. Winning the memorial cup, winning the Stanley cup, but he’s never looked quite so relaxed as when he’s lying beside Whiskey in the sun. 

“I still want to play pro,” Whiskey says, “Even though I know I’m not going to be able to have everything and it’s going to be hard.”

Kent opens his eyes, slowly sits up.

“I knew you’d say that eventually,” Kent says, “And I get it.”

“I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Kent presses his lips to the back of Whiskey’s neck and nods, “Me either.”

“I don’t want to be anything other than a hockey player.”

“That means you’re going to have to lie,” Kent says, “And that sucks a lot.”

“Is it worth it?” Whiskey asks. 

He sees the turmoil in Kent’s eyes, green in the sun and searching for an answer. 

“Yeah,” he says, meek, “I think Jack came out because he found something he loved more than being just a hockey player. That your captain made it worth it for him,” Kent says, like he’s had time to think about it. 

“Yeah they’re straight up in love.”

Kent just looks at him for a minute. 

“Whenever they mention Jack now it’s always part of it. It’s never, Zimmermann hits 30, it’s first openly gay NHLer hits 30. It used to be, son of Bad Bob hits 30. He’s never gotten to be just Jack. I don’t know how he does it. Always being a part of something bigger.”

“Rachel once told me that if I went first overall that I’d be the first kid from the sun belt to do it and that made me freak. And my mom was born in Mexico, they would have made a big deal about that. And it’s not that I’m not proud of that, I just feel like I’d have to work twice as hard to make sure that’s not the only thing they said about me.”

Kent nods, “I like just being a guy who plays hockey. Not the gay guy who plays hockey.”

“Who knows, by the way?” Whiskey asks. 

“You for starters,” Kent presses another kiss to Whiskey’s cheek, “and Jack, Bittle because Jack told him, maybe a few of Jack’s friends. Swoops and his girlfriend. And my agent. That’s it,” Kent says, “What about you.”

“Well you. Bittle knows because of… yeah. I wasn’t trying to hide it when I was with Chad, some of his team knows but they don’t really give a shit about hockey. My friend Tango, and the team manager, Ford. And Rachel, and I guess probably a couple guys from high school.”

“What happened with Chad?” Kent asks. 

“It didn’t end great,” Whiskey says honestly. 

“He wouldn’t tell anybody, right?”

Whiskey shakes his head, “He’s a really good guy,” Whiskey says, “I was an asshole but he wouldn’t.”

“You’re pretty trusting.”

Whiskey shrugs. Holds Kent’s wrist and traces the outline of his watch. Kisses one of the freckles on his forearm. 

“I have to be. If people don’t keep their promises then I don’t know what to believe.”

They lay flat on their backs looking up at the sky. 

“What’s it like to win a cup?” Whiskey asks. 

“I think it’s different every time.”

“I watched you win the Memorial cup.”

“That shit was hard,” Kent blows air out of his lips, “I remember when I won the Stanley cup they were pretending like I wasn’t fucking plastered because I didn’t turn 21 until a couple weeks after.”

“Okay but you were clearly fucking plastered.”

“They weren’t about to breathalyze the captain, now were they.”

“I doubt they were carding him either.”

“They didn’t dare.”

“You know you had a Calder and a Stanley Cup by the time you were my age.”

“And I had two friends, one was my cat.”

“So you’re saying I should finish my degree.”

“Maybe,” Kent says, “But you’re not less than someone else because you played college hockey.”

“We should head back. My mom’s very serious about being on time for dinner.”

“Yeah okay,” Kent says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> half the dialogue in this chapter is just me hating junior hockey culture.  
> also i posted a timeline of Kent's career on my tumblr because i hate the idea of him winning it in his first year in the league  
> https://omg-whiskey.tumblr.com/post/613522055277821952/idk-if-its-canon-or-not-but-it-feels-like  
> next chapter we will see Whiskey's parents interact with Kent which will be Fun


	19. ain't it funny how the past won't ever let something lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent Parson meets the parents... kind of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from things happen by Dawes

There’s a plate of shredded chicken and all the fixings sitting on the table, no one’s in the kitchen. 

“Hello?” Whiskey shouts as he opens the door. 

He sees his mother’s head turn, she’s sitting on the sofa. 

“How was the hike?” She asks.

“It was really beautiful,” Kent says before Whiskey opens his mouth.

“Oh wonderful, good. Good. I’m glad you had fun,” whiskey’s mom says. It’s clear to Whiskey that she still doesn’t know how to talk to Kent. 

Whiskey hears his father’s car pull into the driveway, the door slams shut. 

“Connor!” He shouts out a greeting, “Your mother told me you had a friend over but she wouldn’t tell me who. Am I going to have to break the news to Rachel that the love of her life has a new girlf…” His dad trails off, suit jacket over his arm. 

“Kent Pason?” His dad raises an eyebrow. 

“No but I’ve been told I look just like him,” Kent smirks, he nods, and extends his good hand. Whiskey’s father takes it.

“Well Rachel will be relieved,” His father chuckles. 

Whiskey looks down at the hardwood and wonders how hard he’d have to concentrate to melt through it. 

Kent’s smiling still, like Whiskey’s dad is the funniest man he’s ever met. Whiskey gets why he’s such a hit with the media in Vegas. He makes everytone feel like a friend without ever actually revealing that much about himself.

Whiskey’s mom kisses his dad on the cheek. 

“Dinner’s ready,” she says, “I made enough for everybody,” she puts her hand on Kent’s shoulder, “You don’t mind if Rachel comes over?” She asks, “She got back this afternoon and I invited her,” she says. 

Whiskey focuses all of his energy on becoming a puddle as he nods. 

The thing that Whiskey always misses more than anything when he’s at Samwell is his mother’s cooking. Tonight it tastes like cardboard. He chokes it down while he listens to Rachel tell his mother all about medical school. As she reassures them that she and Whiskey still talk. His father figures out some way to interrogate Kent about his career without ever once making mention of Whiskey’s. He doesn’t know how to ask how they meant because it would mean acknowledging that Whiskey plays for Samwell. 

“It really is impressive,” His father says between bites, “Connor’s mother always said 18 was so young for the draft, but you would have never won that championship if you hadn’t started so early.” 

Whiskey wonders if he stabs himself in the eye with his fork, they’ll have to change the subject. 

“There are definitely uh… pros and cons,” Kent says,”I think uh… I’ve played with guys who came from college and they develop just as well.”

“Hmm. Slower though,” Whiskey’s dad says. “Missing the peak.”

“I think more people are looking to the NCAA as a solid league for development. Especially after Zimmemann won the cup with the Falconers.”

“Ah Zimmermann,” Whiskey’s dad laughs, “Connor was a big Zimmermann fan when he was younger, even got him to sign a jersey,” His dad says. 

Whiskey sinks lower into his chair. 

“I always liked the way you played better,” he gestures at Kent with his fork, “Turns out I was right. His head wasn’t on straight.”

“Dad he won a Stanley cup,” Whiskey says through clenched teeth.

“Later than he was supposed to.”

“Dad,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m complimenting your friend,” His dad says on the defensive. 

Whiskey looks up at Kent. He still looks at ease, like he’s talking to a particularly nosy reporter. He tries to remember how to take a breath again

“Connor, have you thought about an internship for the summer?” His mother asks, she changes the subject. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “Not yet.”

“It's a good way to get your foot in the door.”

He knows his mom is talking about a corporate job. A suit and tie and a desk chair. 

“I thought you wanted to play?” Kent turns to him.

“And he’s doing a fine job on a scholarship,” his dad says, “Rachel went to see him play, didn’t you?” 

Rachel nods, her eyes are wide. 

“Hockey’s a fine sport, but it has to end one day,” his father says. 

Whiskey just nods. 

“Did you see the new episode of Grey’s Anatomy Mrs. Whisk,” Rachel changes the subject to anything other than hockey. 

Whiskey doesn’t know whether he hates her or loves her for it. On one hand, they’re not talking about hockey anymore, on the other hand, it’s one of so many important things they never talk about. 

Kent smiles across the table , genuine and with his eyes. It’s reassuring. 

He zones out, staring down at his plate of food. He knows he has to finish it before his mother lets him leave the table. But Kent’s there. Nodding politely but looking at Whiskey like he’s still a person worth looking at. 

Kent insists on helping Whiskey’s mom clear the table but she swats him away when he offers to do the dishes. 

“I can manage,” she says to him, “You and the kids should go for a walk.”

“Yeah!” Rachel jumps at the chance to get Whiskey out of the house. 

She’s only a few inches shorter than Kent, she throws her arms around the boys. 

They grab some hockey sticks and a road hockey ball, Kent points out his current status as a man with one arm. Rachel laughs. 

“We’ll take it easy on you then,” she smiles. 

There’s a little park with a basketball court in the middle. Rachel kicks her shoes off and sets them a few feet apart as a net. She shoves Whiskey with her shoulder and laughs. Rachel’s a decent hockey player in her own right. She was always practicing with Whiskey and her uncle. Really she just wanted to learn how to hold a hockey stick so she could spend more time with Whiskey. 

Whiskey shoves back and pulls the ball close to his stick. She shoves him again getting the ball back. He laughs. She has a blue floral dress on and her hair is in two braids, she’s also shouting,

“Get on my level dickhead!”

Rachel goes harder than either Kent or Whiskey, giggling and knocking Whiskey over. Kent does his best with one arm. Laughter carries over the neighbourhood.Rachel announces that she’s tired and goes to lay in the grass. Kent and hiskey stand together on the basketball court, Kent passes the ball pack to Whiskey while he lazily shoots at Rachel’s improvised net. 

“I’m sorry about my parents, by the way,” Whiskey mutters.

Kent shakes his head, “It’s fine. It really wasn’t that bad,” Kent says.

Whiskey gives him a meager smile. 

“People have talked worse shit about me and my old teammates,”

“You don’t have to stay with us if you don’t want to… it’s not..”

Kent puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay, I want to be here, with you,” he squeezes Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Whiskey whispers. 

Kent and Whiskey lay in the grass next to Rachel. Kent, bolder than Whiskey, slips his hand on top of Whiskey’s. Runs his thumb over Whiskey’s knuckles. 

“I miss the sky so much sometimes,” Rach says. 

“It’s so grey in Massachusetts,” Whiskey adds. 

“Vegas feels pretty dead sometimes. Like it was a place that was never supposed to exist. I don’t think I’d be able to find a patch of grass to sit in near my place,” he says. 

Whiskey loves the way the sky turns from a deep blue, to a lighter one until the sun’s shining down over his face. The world looks as warm as it feels. 

Rachel kisses the top of Whiskey’s head, “I want to get ahead on my readings for next semester,” she says. 

Kent’s hand slides away as she says goodbye. Whiskey props himself up on his elbows. 

“Enjoy your smart people books,” he says and she ruffles his hair before collecting her shoes and heading home. Whiskey looks over at Kent, he has his sling resting on his chest. And Whiskey really wants to kiss him. He looks like he belongs there, with his head in the grass. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because he won’t risk that where someone could see. 

“She’s nice,” Kent says, eyes still closed.

“Hmm?”

“Rachel. She seems like a good friend. Happy,”

Whiskey smiles to himself, ‘She’s a good person. Deserves to be happy.”

“You’ve got that in common.”

Whiskey smiles to himself, “Are you flattering me?”

“Almost certainly,” Kent says, “is it working?”

“Yes,” Whiskey answers, “And you put up with my dad,” You’re really doing it for me.”

Whiskey was not a rebellious teenager. He didn’t lie to his mother about where he was going or what he was doing. So, he decides, he’s going to make up for lost time. 

“Follow me,” he says, pulls Kent to his feet. 

“What?” Kent says. 

“Just come on,” they jog across the road together in the dusk. 

His mom keeps a case of wine in a pantry in the garage. Something he never took full advantage of when he was younger. He grabs a bottle of something and hands it to Kent. Throws another in his bacpack and slips out. He hopes his parents didn’t hear, and if they did, he’s 21. 

“Dude what are we doing?” Kent whispers. 

Whiskey laughs. 

They walk through the park, past the playground equipment and down the incline through some trees. There’s a little creek behind the park, shrouded in trees. Whiskey slips his hand into Kent’s and then he kisses him full on the mouth. 

“Are we gonna get drunk and make out by a river?” Kent snorts. 

“That’s the plan,” Whiskey nods and then pushes his lips back against Kent’s. 

Kent feels a little bit stiff against him, good arm resting on Whiskey’s shoulder, seeming to try to steady him. 

“Are you okay?” Kent says. 

Whiskey nods, “Yeah. Yeah. Fine,” Whiskey says. He notices how fast he’s talking and Kent notices it too. 

“Am I… Is there something I’m doing that’s making you anxious?” Kent says, keeping his hand firm on Whiskey. 

“No,” Whiskey says, “No. Not you,” he says quickly. 

“Okay. Because it just feels like you were really tense while I was talking to your parents and you haven’t seemed relaxed since.”

“I haven’t been relaxed since I got here,” Whiskey says, “You showing up last night was like the biggest relief in the world.”

And then Kent’s crashing into him, wrapping his arm around the back of Whiskey’s neck and kissing him. Whiskey parts his lips and let’s Kent’s tongue into his own mouth. They sit on top of a pile of rocks. They use Kent’s car keys to uncork the bottle of wine and pass it back and forth. Kent’s lying on his back and Whiskey’s laying beside him on his side. 

They’re both tipsy and Kent’s lips taste like wine by the time the sky goes dark. 

Kent runs his hands through his own hair and glances over at Whiskey. 

“Your parents,” he sighs, “They really don’t talk about it. Your career. The draft.”

“I don’t talk about it either,” Whiskey whispers. 

“What happened?” Kent turns his head. 

Whiskey sits up, takes a sip from the now half empty bottle,he passes it to Kent. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not because he doesn’t trust Kent, but because he doesn’t want to bring down the mood. Because he doesn’t want to look pathetic.

Kent puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder, sits up behind him and kisses the back of his neck. 

Whiskey sighs. 

“I told you about my coach, how he died six months before my draft.”

Kent nods. 

“He was Rachel’s uncle, he lived with her family and he was just the kindest, gentlest guy around. And he was so good at hockey. He saw something in some little kid from Arizona who skated once a week and turned me into a player. I was on those prospect ranking charts when I was 17, some guys had me going in the top 20.”

“And then he died?” Kent asks. 

“And then he died,” Whiskey agrees, He was Rachel’s uncle.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent squeezes Whiskey’s hand. 

“It wasn’t even the fact that he was dead that killed me in the end. It was the fact that he was her uncle. She screamed and screamed and then she didn’t talk anymore. She just didn’t want to be...around, I guess,” Whiskey chokes out. 

He shakes his head, “And I didn’t know how to handle it. I couldn’t imagine hockey without either of them. So I just… didn’t. And I fell down the draft rankings, no one remembered who I was or what happened by the time I was supposed to be playing. I think I scared my parents. I think they’re still scared that I’ll go back to being empty.They don’t talk about Samwell because if they talk about Samwell then they’ll have to remember what happened. ”

“What made you come back?”

“Rachel,” Whiskey answers simply, “I didn’t play for a year. I didn’t even pick up a stick because I was just…  _ alone, _ ” he says, “Rachel was in… this like inpatient facility for a while. She got backhere and she was fucking  _ pissed  _ that I wasn’t playing anymore. So I kept playing. First because it made me happy, then because it made me feel less alone. I like having a team.”

Kent buries his face in Whiskey's shoulder, he holds on like that’s going to fix everything, and in a way it does. 

“Hockey,man,” Kent says, he sounds choked up, “I’ve never uh… never really talked to anyone about it. But when Jack overdosed before our- well, my, before my draft. It was uh.. Was me that found him.”

“Fuck,” Whiskey says, it’s more of a breath than a word. 

“I didn’t know how to not keep going,so I just threw myself into the NHL, headfirst. There was nothing else to do.”

“I’m sorry my dad brought that up.”

“Hey bring it up every time we play each other.”

“Still.”

“I used to I feel like I wouldn’t have the things I do if he’d been there. He should’ve gone first.”

“I think  you earned everything you have. He would have gone first but you stuck it out in Vegas.”

“Can I tell you something that’s probably the most fucked up thing I’ve thought about all this?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes I wish it had been me. Not at first, because it seemed like I had everything he wanted. But now...Now it feels like what he has matters more. I haven’t stopped since I was 17 and it’s  _ so fucked,”  _ Kent says, “It’s so fucked that I think like this. But Jack went to rehab and his parents told him how much they loved him and he figured out his meds… And I dunno. He seems a lot happier.”

It’s Whiskey’s turn to hold Kent, he’s careful to avoid his bad arm, but he nuzzles his face into Kent’s chest. 

“That’s why I tried to defend him to your dad. Because I saw what happened to him at Samwell and it looked like he had a better time there than I did winning a Calder.”

Whiskey runs his hand over Kent’s shoulder.

“It’s better now, don’t like… worry,” he says, “The team’s fine. Swoops is a really good friend. Kelli gave me a therapist’s number in October. I haven’t had to use it yet, but it’s good to know if I ever need to…”

They lay in the quiet, Kent lifts his head. 

“Did you really get Zimms to sign your jersey?”

Whiskey laughs, “Jealous?”

“You don’t have a custom Falcs jersey, do you?” Kent needles at him. 

“No,”Whiskey says through chuckles, “I did have a huge crush on him when I was 11 though. That was a fun way to figure out I’m not straight.”

Kent’s eyes go wide, “Are you fucking with me?”

“I swear on the stanley cup.”

“You don’t like… still, right?”

“No,” Whiskey answers, honest, “I think maybe… honestly, it was the way he looked at you after he scored. I think I wanted to be able to look at someone like that.”

Kent kisses him, practically rolls on top of him, he pulls away and looks at Whiskey a grin on his face, “That’s cheesy as hell, Whisk.”

“Yeah.”

And then he pulls Kent back. He can’t imagine wanting anything as much as he wants Kent in this moment. Kent seems like he wants Whiskey just as bad. 

Kent’s getting dirtier with the kiss, pushing farther, holding the back of Whiskey’s head with a firm, solid hand. 

“We should go back to your parents’ house,” Kent says. 

Whiskey has every intention of pushing Kent into his bed and  _ finally _ getting to do what they both want so badly. 

But he loses his nerve as he turns the door handle. He starts to worry about his parents, about his mother. Especially when he sees her sitting in the living room. He tells them they were screwing around at the park and she doesn’t question it, but she does say,

“You both look exhausted, Kent, I made up the guest room for you.”

And Whiskey tries to think on his feet, searching for a reason for Kent to sleep in his room. He doesn’t find one quickly enough and his mother’s showing Kent to the room at the top of the stairs. 

“Well uh. G’night,” Kent says to Whiskey. 

Whiskey’s mom hugs her son and her son’s new  _ friend  _ goodnight and heads to her own room. 

Whiskey won’t chance it, he can’t. Not in his parents house, not with his parents home. He curses under his breath and gets ready for bed. 

He leaves his phone on his dresser while he pulls on his pajamas. It lights up with a snapchat from Kent. Whiskey opens it. It’s a picture of Kent sitting in his bed without a shirt, smirking and looking at something on the ceiling. 

_ Your mom just cockblocked us _ the caption reads. 

So Whiskey, still not wearing a pajama shirt, takes a picture of himself in the mirror and sends it to Kent. He gets a photo back almost instantly of Kent’s dick, hard against his sweatpants.  _ Whiskey’s sweatpants,  _ he remembers, and that’s hot. Like really hot, and Whiskey’s dick is definitely paying attention.

He sends Kent a picture, easing his sweatpants down, and then he sends a video as he tries to jerk himself to a climax on the edge of his bed. Kent sends him a picture of his dick, red and hard and leaking. Whiskey falls back, throws his head back and comes on his own stomach. 

He sends Kent a picture of the mess. It takes a minute, but Kent sends his own picture. Whiskey keeps it open, just looking at it. His mouth hangs open, breathing hard

_Parserbabey_ _fuck_

 _Parserbabey_ _that was really hot._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _how are we at the same ZIP code and i still can’t touch you._

 _Parserbabey_ _I think the last thing you’re going to want to explain to your parents why they heard you fucking the captain of the Las Vegas Aces a few hours after family dinner_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _What if it’s worth it_

 _Parserbabey_ _i’m flattered ;)_

Whiskey’s blush is deep and hot as he reaches for some tissues to clean up the mess he’s made. He imagines Kent doing the same thing and then he has to think about taking a slapshot to the face because he can feel himself getting hard again. 

Connor Whisk is not a patient man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent Parson is the master of terribly timed one handed phone sex, okay?  
> it's canon now


	20. We're all not here for nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent and Whiskey start the New Year together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from Vegas Lights by panic!  
> this chapter is mostly happy and also Long

It isn’t the biggest tragedy of Whiskey’s life when Kent has to leave the next day. The Aces have a home game, and he’s supposed to be in the press box. Whiskey’s tempted to ask to go with him, he knows Kent would say yes. But he just can’t figure out the right way to explain it to his parents, that he’ll be missing more of Christmas break to hang out with his  _ friend  _ in Las Vegas. 

Kent sits in his room for a while before he leaves. The door’s closed, they sit on the edge of the bed. Kent’s hand is around Whiskey’s. 

“Thank you for coming,” Whiskey says, “even though it was kind of insane.”

Kent just nods. 

“When’s the next time I can see you?” Whiskey asks. 

“Spend New Years with me?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey agrees the second Kent asks. He thinks he might start nodding the second Kent finishes the sentence. Whiskey spends the days leading up to Christmas mostly alone. He didn’t keep in touch with anyone but Rachel from high school. And most of the time that suits him well, he doesn’t need reminders. But now he’s alone in his hometown and he doesn’t know what to do. He plays road hockey, sometimes alone, sometimes with Rachel. On the 23rd, he goes Christmas shopping with his mother. 

Christmas passes without incident. His family eats dinner together. His mother buys him a watch. He gets a card in the mail from Ford, how she has his address is a mystery for another time. It’s sweet though, a picture of Whiskey, Tango and Foxtrot that they took after a game. Ford’s drawn rainbow antlers above their heads. On the back she wrote, 

_ Whiskey _

_ Merry Christmas Enjoy the sun while you can. I can’t wait to freeze to death with you in a week.  _

He texts her a quick thank you and finds a picture from Kent. He hides his phone with his hand as he opens it, not sure what he’ll be getting, a nude or a picture of his cat. 

It’s Kit. She’s sitting on Kent’s counter wearing a cat sized Santa hat. 

_ Kit but make it festive.  _

Then Kent sends a video. Kit’s on the floor now ripping the hat apart with her claws. Whiskey smiles to himself. 

_ConnorWhiskey_ _Should i bring protective gear for New Years_

 _Parserbabey_ _Kit’s a very good judge of character, I’m sure the hat just had bad vibes_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Oh god what if I don’t pass ur cat’s vibe check_

 _Parserbabey_ _That might be cause for concern_

 _Parserbabey_ _She’ll love you. Swoops and Kelli too._

Whiskey finds himself blushing, looking down at his phone. He has to put it away when his blush reaches his face. 

The five days between Christmas and New Years are his own personal brand of torture. It’s the promise of getting to see Kent that keeps him from descending into a complete post-Christmas breakdown. 

_Parserbabey_ _Four hours really isn’t that long a drive_

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _I can take a bus from Phoenix, you’d be driving eight hours_

 _Parserbabey_ _I don’t mind. It’s not like i have anything else to do._

 _ConnorWhiskey_ _Okay_

Kent leaves his house in the morning on New Years Eve, the Aces play tonight and Kent has to sit in the press box. Without really thinking about the impulse, Whiskey opens google maps and figures out exactly how long Kent’s drive would take.

He doesn’t know what you’re supposed to wear to a New Year’s Eve party that you know NHL players will be attending. Something that will make Kent think he looks good but won’t make him look like he’s trying too hard. He puts a few dress shirts and jeans into his bag along with a pair of slacks.

Whiskey starts to get antsy an hour before Kent’s supposed to be there. He shakes his head at himself, he knows Kent’s fine. Kent’s fine, he tells himself Kent’s fine. It’s the stupidest dumbest thing to be anxious about but every time someone he cares about gets into a car, he freaks out and worries that they won’t ever be coming back. He’s sitting alone in his parents’ living room. It’s the one time a week his mother goes into the office. The perfect time to sit on the couch and panic. 

He knows that he should deal with whatever it is going on inside that makes him feel like this, but he doesn’t know how. So he just sits there, blood draining out of his face, arms going numb, chest tight. 

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe. 

In the end, Kent is only twenty minutes later than Google Maps told him. Whiskey chest is still tight as he pulls Kent into the house and hugs him. 

“Dude you look like you saw a ghost or something,” Kent has his hands resting on Whiskey’s shoulders. He’s out of the sling now, arm still bandaged, but it covers a smaller portion of his wrist now. 

“No!” Whiskey insists, “I’m just happy to see you.”

He kisses Kent as Kent stumbles further into the threshold, pulling him up to his mouth by his shirt collar. They’re both breathing hard when Kent pulls away. 

“Seriously though,” Kent says, “Are you okay?”

“Yes!” Whiskey insists, moving in for another kiss. 

“Connor, you still feel tense. Is it your parents?”

Whiskey shakes his head, “I’m good, I promise.”

“I don’t want to do anything that’s going to make you anxious,” Kent says. 

“You didn’t do anything. I just…” he sighs, “I get worried sometimes… about driving. Not like me or anything, just knowing that if something happened… I wouldn’t know.”

Kent just stands there with his hands in his pockets and nods, “Have you talked to someone about it?”

“I mean. You.”

“I’m not telling you how to live your life or anything but maybe you should talk to like a therapist about it.”

“It never really felt like a big deal.”

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“Thanks, Parse,” Whiskey says. 

“You good to go?”

“Yeah, lets go,” 

Whiskey tosses his backpack over his shoulder. 

Kent has a pair of sunglasses resting on top of his forehead. He pulls them down to cover his eyes before they pull out of his parents’ driveway. 

Whiskey’s still half expecting to wake up from some kind of dream. Kent Parson looks like a love interest in a Mariah Carey video.He laughs like Whiskey’s the reason he’s happy and he hums along to the Top 40 playing on the radio. He doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t feel like a person who would be so interested in Whiskey that he’d take eight hours out of a day where he has to be at an NHL arena to watch from the press boxth as the team he captain’s plays for a playoff spot. 

The idea that Kent Parson likes him back is so entirely unfathomable to Whiskey that he almost punches himself to make sure he won’t wake up. Whiskey gets comfortable, he rests his feet on the dash. Kent looks over and smiles at him, shaking his head. He doesn’t have the top down, it’s too windy., but the windows are open and Whiskey’s leaning against the headrest, watching as Arizona turns into Nevada. 

Whiskey’s been to Vegas once, with his dad when he was 15. They walked up the strip but there wasn’t much else for an underage kid to do while his dad sat in hotel conference rooms. The strip is bright and distracting and beautiful in a strange kind of way. Whiskey’s quiet as Kent pulls into the parking garage under his building. 

Kent’s neighbours, the doorman, anyone who saw them together would see a pair of friends. Two young uys walking up to one of their condos together. But Whiskey can feel energy crackling betweem them. He wants and he is wanted in return. Kent has high ceilings and big windows and marble countertops and everything you’d expect a rich 26 year old to throw money at. There’s also a cat tree that sits beside the window, a pillow on the couch with a red spade cross stitched into it. He has his draft jersey framed on the wall and next to that is his jersey from Rimouski, beside that an even smaller jersey, cheaply made, bright green with his number 90. Kent walks into the kitchen. 

“I have to feed the beast before we get ready for the game.”

“We?”

“I hooked you up with a guest pass, so you can sit in the press box with me,” Kent says.

Whiskey walks into the kitchen, hesitant. 

“You don’t have to!” Kent says quickly. 

“No, I want to,” Whiskey nods.

“I wouldn’t be the first guy to bring a friend around.”

Kent opens his cupboard and pulls out a can of cat food. 

“Watch this,” Kent says. 

He pops the top off the can and Kit comes flying into the room. She gets up wnd starts pawing at Kent’s leg. He sets her dish down on the floor and she pounces on it. Kent steps back, jokingly holding his hands up. He turns around and faces Whiskey with his hands in his pockets. 

“Thank you,” Kent says, “By the way. Thanks for coming.”

“I wanted to,” Whiskey says. 

And then Kent’s kissing him, crowding him up against the fridge, hand on his hip pulling him closer. Whiskey gasps into the kiss, he feels Kent smiling against his mouth as he steps over Kit, pulling Whiskey into the living room.Whiskey’s hands slide up Kent’s back, he cups his neck. He wants every inch of Kent to be pressed up against him. 

“Fuck, “ Whiskey breathes against Kent, “You have to be at the game in an hour.” 

He puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder and takes a small step back. 

“I hate being a responsible adult,” Kent grumbles, scowling at himself. 

“I’ll still be here after the game,” Whiskey raises an eyebrow. 

Kent holds his hand up like he’s about to pull Whiskey back in for a kiss but he just clenches his fist, “To be continued,” he says with a playful frustration in his voice. Kent disappears into his bedroom, Whiskey doesn’t follow because he doesn’t think either one of them would be able to resist at that point. So Whiskey finds the bathroom and drops his bag on the floor. He pulls the slacks and a white dress shirt out, hopes the wrinkles will smooth out by the time they get to the arena. 

He tucks the shirt into his pants and slips his belt through the loops on his pants. Whiskey’s never been too pressed about the way he looks. He cuts his hair the same way every month and he knows that he’s in shape. But he can’t help but wonder if Kent’s going to like the way he looks. 

He’s sitting in the living room, suit jacket hanging off the back of a chair. He’s wearing burgundy pants with a plaid pattern, with a white dress shirt and a red tie. Whiskey feels underdressed. He looks good because he always looks good, but when he pulls the jacket on, all Whiskey can think about is taking it off. 

Kent glides through the arena while Whiskey trails beside him. He stands at a healthy distance while the Aces social media takes a few pictures of Kent strolling up before the game. Then they head to the press box. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting there to be… you know… press… in the  _ press  _ box, but he’s surprised when he finds a handful of beat reporters already hunched over laptops and notepads. 

There would be no controversy if Kent decided to ignore them, but he doesn’t. He sits down next to a woman in a pantsuit and they talk like friends. Kent cracks jokes with them, lets them know he’ll be back on the ice in “no time.” Then they settle in for the game like professionals. At first, Kent is all smiles, he elbows Whiskey when the puck drops, tells a joke about how he would have won it. Then the Aces start losing, Kent’s frown deepens the longer they go without a goal. It can’t be easy, Whiskey thinks. Kent was the first piece in the Aces team that takes the ice every night. He was the one they built around, and now? Now he’s in the press box unable to do anything to help. Whiskey wants to put his hand on top of Kent’s, but he can’t. Not with so many people standing around them. 

His phone buzzes in the middle of the second intermission. Kent’s gone to do some kind of quick interview and Whiskey sits alone. 

**Tango-** **motherfucker are you at the Aces game????**

Then Foxtrot sends a picture to the groupchat, it’s of him and Kent, sitting in the press box. He’s obviously not the focal point of the picture, Kent is. He’s not even standing particularly close to Kent, but close enough to be in shot, and close enough for his friends to recognize him

**Whiskey-** **lol. Yeah**

 **Foxtrot-** **how?????**

Whiskey looks at the picture. It’s not clear that he’s with Kent, just that he’s in the press box. So he lies. 

**Whiskey-** **My dad knows someone who covers the team. Hooked us up. Sweet seats!**

 **Foxtrot-** **I hate that ur turning into an Aces fan**

Whiskey turns off his phone because Kent comes back. His frown is etched even more deeply into his face than when he’d left, looking up at the scoreboard. Three goals for the Penguins, 1 for the Aces. 

“Fucking come on, Swoops,” Kent mutters under his breath as the Aces start the third. Whiskey watches Kent out of the corner of his eye more than he watches the game. He has his fists clenched every time someone comes close to scoring, his entire body is tense. He sees his nails digging into the flesh of his skin as the Penguins score their fourth goal with two minutes left in the game. 

Kent sighs at the final buzzer, stands up and turns around, Whiskey follows him. 

“I’ve gotta talk to the media,” he says, “But I’ll see you in a few.”

Whiskey stands at the back of the room where they’ve set up a podium. Kent’s supposed to give an update on his injury alongside his coaches. Kent sits through the usual “played a good game but they played a better one” spiel from both the coach and Swoops, who scored the Aces lone goal. Then Kent comes out, and he looks more cheerful than in the minutes after the Aces lost the game. He smiles and he jokes with the media, they give a timeline on Kent’s return, which is now two weeks, 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, folks,” he says, “It is New Year Eve, I’m sure you all have plans, I certainly do,” he looks directly at Whiskey, “Drink responsibly,” he says into the microphone. A glint in his eye ensures that he’ll be making the nightly recap shows on ESPN for having slightly more personality than a brick wall. 

Kent walks to the back of the room, Whiskey follows him out as his coach stays to answer more questions. 

“I hope you’re ready to watch several grown men be the drunkest they’ll be all year,” Kent leans his head in close to Whiskey, smirk on his lips. 

Swoops jogs up behind the two of them, puts one hand on Kent’s shoulder and another on Whiskey’s. 

“You boys ready to fuckin’ party,” He slaps both of them on the back. 

Kent turns, laughing, “Yeah, just don’t throw up on me again, alright?”

Whiskey smiles. They go back to Kent’s, Whiskey changes into a pair of jeans and Kent puts on a black checked button up with light blue jeans. His cowlick pokes out the top of his Aces snapback that Whiskey has not once seen him wear the right way. 

Kent pulls a bottle of whiskey from the top of his fridge. 

“Ha, Whiskey,” he smirks. 

“Yeah, never heard that one before,” Whiskey smirks right back. 

“You look good, by the way,” Kent mutters against his neck as they walk out the door. 

Swoops’ apartment is almost identical to Kent’s, except it’s closer to the strip and Whiskey can see the neon out the window. Kent and Whiskey are the first to arrive, and Whiskey gets the impression that it’s not abnormal. Swoops’ girlfriend (Kelli?) Comes out of the kitchen. Her blonde hair fades into a light blue dip dye and she’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans and a shiny gold tube top. She’s wearing oven mitts and shakes them off to hug Kent.

“Are you Connor?” She asks, excited. 

Whiskey nods, “Yeah, my friends call me Whiskey, you can… or whatever.”

She kisses him on the cheek and nods, “I’m glad you made it. Ken always likes to come early so I hope you don’t mind the rest of the team thinking you’re lame,” she puts her arm around his waist and pulls him into the kitchen. Swoops and Kent stay in the living room. 

“I’m making cupcakes,” she points at the muffin tin cooling on the stove. 

“They look good,” Whiskey says. 

“I bought edible glitter, I can’t wait to hear the complaints,” she’s smiling, “oooh!” She says, “Do you wanna do a shot,”

Before Whiskey can answer she’s pulling a bottle of vodka out of the fridge and handing him a glass. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says. 

“Ken!” She shouts, “We’re doing vodka shots so you can stop pretending to like whatever fancy shit Jeff is trying to sell you on.”

Kent comes running, comically quickly into the kitchen and snags one of the shot glasses from Kelli’s hands. 

“To a new year!” Kelli holds up her glass, the boys clink their glasses against hers. 

It goes down smoother than college kid vodka, but it’s still gross. Kelli hands him a bottle of powerade which he takes a sip of and then passes off to Kent who knocks back a sip. 

“Parser!” Swoops shouts from the living room, “Hanging streamers is a two man job!” 

Kent taps Whiskey on the back and heads back to the living room. Kelli’s spreading icing on top of her cupcakes and then dusting them with gold glitter. 

“They always complain that I’m ruining their diet plans, but then they finish everything I make,” she shrugs, “So… I win.”

Whiskey looks around at the food lining her kitchen. 

“I bought a veggie tray, so it counts as health,” she says. 

She doesn’t seem to mind that he’s not answering her, content to just ramble while he stands there leaning against her counters. 

“Jeffrey!” She shouts, “Can you put the playlist on already! It’s too quiet in here.”

Without responding, Swoops hits play and their new years playlist starts. It’s a decent mix, Whiskey thinks. 

“You know, Ken talks about you all the time,” Kelli says. 

“He what?” Whiskey finally manages a word in. 

“When you guys were texting earlier. He was always smilin’ at his phone. He likes you,” Kelli says. 

“Oh,” Whiskey mumbles, “That’s uh. S’good to know.”

The door opens and a group of guys who are about Whiskey’s age burst into the party with a case of beer on their shoulders.

“Brucey!” Swoops shouts as the first one walks into the living room. 

“Yo! Jonesy! Squid!” He hears Kent shout. 

“I don’t know why I do this every year,” Kelli pours herself another shot and hands one offto Whiskey without asking if he wants it.

“Thanks,” he says. 

A pair of older D-men and their wives show up next. 

“I have to go pretend to be interested in their kids,” she rolls her eyes. 

She plasters a smile on her face as she moves away to greet them. Whiskey is a perpetual fridge leaner at parties. Tango and Foxtrot find him in the Haus kitchen at kegsters more often than not. 

He walks into the living room. The lights are off and the times square show is on Swoops’ and Kelli’s massive TV. Swoops is on the floor letting Kent pour beer down his throat. 

Kelli’s standing behind him, leaning on the wall. 

“Why don’t you get in on that?” Kelli nods towards the two boys.

Whiskey shakes his head, “Not my style.”

“No one’s going to make fun of you,” she says. 

“I uh…” Whiskey shrugs. 

“You can say no, but I can’t let my boyfriend outdrink me.”

She throws a can of twisted tea at him and takes a knee beside Swoops. Whiskey shakes his head, smiling to himself. He pops the tab on the can and pours it into her mouth. Kent looks over at him and grins. 

The wives and girlfriends are cheering Kelli on, most of the players are on her side. Kelli’s gesturing for Whiskey to pour faster as Swoops starts to sputter. 

Whiskey crushes the can in her hand as she finishes and the party erupts in cheers. Kelli throws her hands in the air. Swoops wipes beer off of his chin and kisses her full on the mouth. 

Kent fist bumps him. Whiskey briefly wonders if he has a thing for drunken frat boys. Whiskey knew that NHL players partied hard, this combined with the fact that it’s New Years Eve makes it the perfect storm for an absolute Rager. Whiskey sits on the edge of the couch as the ball countdown starts. Kelli’s sitting with the goalie, interrogating him about the last date he went on. Kent’s got his arm wrapped around Swoops’ shoulders as the countdown starts. The room starts vibrating, then everyone’s bouncing. The ball drops and everyone cheers. Swoops shrugs off Kent and rushes to the couch where he scoops up Kelli and kisses her. Kent turns to Whiskey. Their eyes connect and Kent raises his glass to Whiskey. Whiskey raises his own glass. He smiles over the warm beer. He can see fireworks over the strip, exploding around Kent’s head, lighting up the background. Kent’s grinning and Whiskey thinks that he’d like to look at that grin forever.

Whiskey doesn’t entirely black out but it does feel like he’s living in a movie montage for the next hour. 

Whiskey’s leaning against the wall, Kent walks up beside him. 

“Hey,” He says. 

“Hey,”

“Are you alright.”

“Not a big party guy,” Whiskey shrugs.

“We can go,” Kent offers. 

“You look like you’re having a good time. We don’t have to.”

“I’d rather go home with you if you’re not enjoying yourself.”

So Whiskey nods, lets Kent call a cab. Kent walks over to Kelli, she kisses him on the cheek and walks over to Whiskey. 

“I’m glad I got to meet you,” she hugs him, “He never leaves early. He really likes you,” she whispers as they pull away.

If the cab driver recognizes Kent, he doesn’t mention it. 

“You look like shit,” Whiskey mumbles as they get into the elevator. The lights are  _ so  _ bright. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “I love reminding myself why I don’t black out anymore.” He rubs his temples as he pushes his door open. 

The darkness of Kent’s apartment is a welcome sight. He can still hear fireworks in the distance, the strip is farther away but the neon still lights up the sky. Kent’s got his arms wrapped around Whiskey’s shoulders. Half asleep but still kissing the side of his neck. Kent looks like he was built to be lit by neon. The glow of it lights up his face, his curls. Whiskey wants to run his hands through it. So he does. 

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Whiskey says. 

His filter’s a little fuzzy with the alcohol in his system. 

Kent grabs his hand. They stumble towards the couch. Kent tucks his head into Whiskey’s shoulder and nuzzles against him. 

‘I didn’t get to kiss you at midnight,” Kent mumbles. 

“We were with your team,” Whiskey says. He still has his fingers tangled in Kent’s hair. 

“I know, can I do it now?”

Whiskey nods. 

Kent turns around, holds himself up to plant a light kiss on Whiskey’s lips. 

“Happy New year,” Whiskey whispers against him. 

“Happy New year,” Kent says back. 

“Maybe one day you’ll be able to kiss whoever you want in front of your team,” Whiskey says. 

And Kent rolls over to lay against his chest again. 

“Maybe not me,” Kent says. 

“Why not?”

“I’m old. I don’t know if the League’s changing fast enough for that. You one day, maybe it won’t matter. You’ll be able to kiss whoever you want.”

“What if the only person I want to kiss is you?” Whiskey says. 

Kent laughs, then he seems to realize that Whiskey’s serious. 

“Really?” he looks up. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you saying…”

“Can we make this official. I mean it’s just us, but stil,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah. I’d like that,” Kent nuzzles against Whiskey’s chest again. 

Whiskey kisses the top of Kent’s head. It’s soft and quiet and he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. 

“I really hate that it has so much power,” Whiskey says. 

“What does?”

“Me liking you. That the fact that I’m your boyfriend and not your girlfriend makes us something bigger. It’ll make people hate us and it’ll make people tell us we’re brave. But I just want to be us,” Whiskey says.

“I don’t wanna be a role model,” Kent says, “They turned Zimms into some kind of symbol. I don’t wanna be one.”

“Me neither,” Whiskey agrees. 

“Makes me feel like a liar sometimes.”

“Me too. But I don’t think it’s your fault that you have to lie.”

“You’re really smart.”

“That’s college baby,” Whiskey mutters. 

He feels Kent laughing against his chest and that’s the last thing he remembers before they both fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent Parson is hyper aware of other people's emotions because he's still guilty over that one time he didn't know how his friend was feeling and he almost died thank you for coming to my Ted Talk
> 
> Will Kent and Whiskey ever get to bone? your guess is as good as mine  
> as always comments are appreciated


	21. I like that you can see it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent and Whiskey finally have a moment alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from i like that you can see it by girlpool

Everything looks different in the morning, Kent’s still pressed up against his chest, breathing slowly. The pink and blue neon of last night is distant. The man who did body shots off of Kelli’s collar bones last night is gone. Whiskey stretches his arm out from underneath of him, he stretches slightly, still cradling Kent’s head against his chest. He runs his fingers through Kent’s hair, tugging as he gently scratches Kent’s scalp with his fingernails. 

Kent stirs, eyes still closed, he lets out a happy little sigh. Kent’s hair is thick but oily with sweat from the night before. 

“I feel like someone dropped a brick on my head,” Kent mutters. 

“Yeah, you drank like a man on a mission.”

“New years tradition,” Kent grumbles, “Swoops and I went out on the strip our first year here, I think we were trying to do a bar crawl but we just ended up back at his taking turns throwing up in his bathroom sink. Since then we’ve been throwing a party every year. Guys just started showing up.”

“That’s nice,” Whiskey yawns, he hasn’t bothered to look at the clock yet, knows it’s early. 

“Mmm,” Kent mumbles, “It used to be way more of a frat party.”

“I know how to turn up at a frat party,” Whiskey teases. 

“I dunno about that.”

“Parse, I am literally in a frat.”

“You live in a frat house, there’s a difference.”

“Bro, I was  _ hazed  _ it counts,” Whiskey protests with a laugh. 

“Okay I’ll give you that one,” Kent relents. 

He rolls over so he’s looking up and facing Whiskey.

“You did have a good time, right?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey nods, “We really didn’t have to leave that early, y’know?”

Kent shrugs, “I was tired anyway,” he yawns as if to prove his point. .

“Yeah just… you don’t have to change the way you do stuff just for me.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I know,” Whiskey says, “I get awkward at parties but it’s not like a…” He pauses, “It’s not a  _ thing, _

“A thing?”

“Like I’m not gonna hide in the bathroom or have a panic attack. I just get a little quiet,” he shrugs. 

“I didn’t think it was like that. You just looked tired.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “Oh. Just because you said… y’know the other day that you thought I should,” Whiskey mumbles the next part, “Talk to someone.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Kent’s voice gets quiet, “It just helps,” he says, “I promise it helps.”

“I uh,” Whiskey sighs, he doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings, it’s not a skill he ever thought important enough to learn, “I don’t really know how to- uhm. Talk.”

“Neither did I. Still don’t,” Kent shrugs, “But after all that stuff with Jack. Not being able to come out. It just helps.”

Whiskey just nods, Kent pressed against his chest. He wonders if he could be telling the truth, if he could feel better. 

Kent lets the subject die and Whiskey’s thankful. Kent’s arms are wrapped around his chest, his head tucked under his chin. Kent’s only a little bit shorter than Whiskey, he has the same slim athletic build. He’s dropped weight since the injury but he’s still Kent, still solid. With Whiskey’s hand still in Kent’s hair, he lifts his head to place a kiss on Whiskey’s jaw. He wraps his hand around the back of Whiskey’s neck and kisses him on the mouth. It’s open mouthed, lazy, but wanting. Whiskey’s tongue slips into Kent’s mouth. He tastes like stale beer and Whiskey can see a speck glitter from Kelli’s cupcakes still on his lip. Whiskey licks it off. Kent’s squirming on top of him, Whiskey groans.

“There’s still something I want to do with you,” Kent mutters. 

“With me or to me,” Whiskey teases. 

“Bit of both,” Kent bites Whiskey’s bottom lip, tugging Whiskey closer. 

“Oh my god, please,” Whiskey groans. 

Kent rolls his hips. Whiskey’s hands hover over the top button of Kent’s shirt. Whiskey undoes it. Kent pulls away, tugs the shirt over his head. Whiskey sits up farther. .He kisses the side of Whiskey’s neck, grazes his teeth along the sensitive skin. Whiskey hisses as Kent’s hands slide up his back. He’s cold. 

“Are you okay?” Kent mutters into Whiskey’s neck. 

Whiskey nods.

“I have a bedroom, you know?” Kent says. 

Whiskey’s hands stop where they are and he nods. Enthusiasm, lust, whatever. Whiskey stood up and pulled Kent to his feet. Kent doesn’t take his hands off Whiskey as they crash towards the bedroom. Kent presses Whiskey up against the closed bedroom door, slips his tongue back into Whiskey’s mouth. Kent reaches down and twists the doorknob. He’s still leaning on Whiskey and they tumble back into the bedroom. Kent reaches for Whiskey’s belt, fumbling with the clasp. Whiskey places his hand on top of Kent’s and undoes the buckle himself. Kent pulls the belt out of the belt loops himself and lets it fall to the floor. 

“How do you wanna do this?” Kent asks, out of breath in a way that Whiskey can’t believe he’s partially responsible for.

“Fuck me?” Whiskey says, just as out of breath as Kent is. 

“Fuck,” Kent exhales, “Oh hell yeah.”

Whiskey’s never seen anyone look at him the way Kent is looking at him now. 

Kent's hands slide up Whiskey’s side and underneath his shirt. Whiskey pulls it over his head and lets it fall to the floor next to his belt. Kent runs the tips of his fingers over Whiskey’s chest and down his stomach. 

“God you’re fucking beautiful,” Kent says and he pushes Whiskey back.

Whiskey’s knees hit the back of the bed and he falls onto his back. He doesn’t know if he believes Kent in this exact moment, doesn’t know how he could possibly deserve the way Kent looks at him when he climbs on top of him. Kent’s pulling off Whiskey;s jeans. All Whiskey wants is to be laid bare in front of Kent, and Kent obliges, yanking his pants off over his feet, he rolls his hips against Whiskey’s and Whiskey lets out a sharp sigh. 

“Please,” he says needier than he means. 

Kent pulls his own jeans off and throws them to the floor. 

“You’re sure about this, right?” Kent asks, fingers hovering over the waistband of Whiskey’s red boxer briefs. 

“Yes. Oh my god, yes,” Whiskey exhales. 

Kent doesn’t say anything else, helping Whiskey to shimmy out of his underwear. He takes Whiskey’s dick in his hands and Whiskey groans, so much louder than he ever has in bed with someone. Partially because no one’s listening on the other side of the wall, partially because he’s been waiting so long to feel Kent’s hands on him. And they’re rough and calloused from working out, but they feel so good on him. 

“How do you want to? It’s easier if you turn over.”

Whiskey shakes his head, “I want to see you.”

“Oh wow, yeah, yes please,” Kent says. 

He reaches for the nightstand and pulls out a roll of condoms and a bottle of lube. While he does that, Whiskey positions himself against the headboard. Kent slides a pillow under his hips. He can feel Kent hard against him as he slides up to kiss Whiskey one more time. Whiskey’s hips thrust up, searching for some friction. 

“You’re so impatient,” Kent whispers against his ear. 

“I’ve only been waiting months for you to do this,” Whiskey groans. 

Whiskey hears the sound of the bottle opening and then he feels Kent’s finger pressing against him. 

Whiskey groans. 

“Please,” He mutters. 

Then Kent’s pressing another finger inside of him, his hands are gentle. Long fingers scissoring, working him open. Kent’s fingers curl inside of him, pressing against his prostate. Whiskey lets out a moan. 

“Oh my god, baby, please,” he whines in a voice that he’s never heard come out of his own mouth. The  _ baby  _ surprises him, but it feels so right in the moment. 

Kent pulls away, his fingers leave Whiskey feeling empty. Kent rolls a condom on. Whiskey takes a deep breath as he feels Kent pushing in. Kent’s quiet, just little breaths in and out as he adjusts. Whiskey jerks his hips, inviting Kent to push deeper. 

“Are you good,”he asks.

Whiskey’s looking up at Kent and nods, “Fuck, yes.”

Whiskey groans. 

“You look so good,” Whiskey mutters. 

Kent’s red, and he flushes even redder. 

Kent holds onto Whiskey’s hips as he pushes in, looking for the right angle. Whiskey puts his hand on top of Kent’s hands.

“Right there,” he moans, steadying Kent. 

Kent nods and goes deeper. 

“I’m close,” Kent whispers. 

Whiskey nods, Kent reaches for Whiskey’s dick and starts jerking him off as his thrusts get sloppier. Whiskey’s nails dig into Kent’s back and that does it for Kent. He gets a few more thrusts in before he pulls out. His hand is still on Whiskey, he feels the warmth building in his abdomen. He comes on Kent’s hand, it pools on his stomach. Kent ties off the condom and drops it into a trash can beside the bed. He falls onto the pillow next to Kent, passes him a handful of tissues. He wipes off his own hand and then moves onto Whiskey, dragging the tissue over his stomach. 

“That was so worth the wait,” Whiskey says between breaths. 

Kent just nods, leans back against the headboard. He turns over on his side to kiss Whiskey on the cheek. It’s gentle, it sends chills through Whiskey’s body, he feels close to Kent in a way he didn’t know he could feel close to a person. Like it wasn’t just sex, like it was sex with someone who cared about him. 

Kent pulls one of the sheets over them, wraps it and his arms around Whiskey. They’re both warm and dopey. Kent kisses the side of Whiskey’s neck. 

“You’re uh… pretty good at that,” Whiskey teases. 

Kent snorts, “Thanks. I hope I wasn’t too out of practice for you,” he rolls his eyes. 

“I definitely don’t believe that you’re not having all the sex you could possibly want to be having,” Whiskey pulls the sheet around his shoulders and smiles at Kent. 

Kent shakes his head, “You overestimate the opportunities I have to get laid,”

“You’re literally hot as hell,” Whiskey says. 

“Well,” Kent says, “I’m also a gay man playing professional sports.”

“I thought you were an NDA and run kind of guy.”

“Like once or twice,” Kent says, “But I don’t… I can’t. I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says.

“It’s the first thing my agent told me when I told him. He said we had to get a publicist and be careful because the Aces weren’t prepared to have the first out player on the team.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, you have so much to look forward to,” Kent smirks. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “I can handle that part.”

“You always think you can.”

“Is it worth it?”

“It keeps me sane,” Kent drums his fingers on Whiskey’s chest. 

He traces his fingers along Whiskey’s collarbones. 

“I feel like that’s what Bittle doesn’t get,”Whiskey says, “I’m not trying to change the world. Just play hockey. Make some money, do what I love.”

Kent nods, “Yeah. Honestly yeah.”

“You think about it sometimes though?” Whiskey says, it’s an admission as well as an inquiry. 

Kent nods, “Oh yeah. For sure. More in the way that it’d be nice if it wasn’t a big deal. I think about the good things that could happen. Zimms talks about the kids all the time in interviews and shit. And I think he means kids like we were. How it would have been easier for us if there had been someone in the NHL who’d taken that first step. I guess he got to be that guy.”

Kent sighs, “It’s like anyone who knows has power over you,” he says. 

Whiskey nods, “That’s kind of terrifying.”

Kent takes Whiskey’s hand in his, “You just have to be careful. And anyone who does know, you just have to talk to them.Does that guy? I know you said he wouldn’t do anything but maybe you should talk to him just in case.”

“Yeah. I will.”

“I hate it sometimes. But I love this stupid fucking game more.”

There’s not any bitterness in Kent’s voice as he says it. Just honest resignation. 

“What about after you’re done playing?” Whiskey asks. He runs his thumb over Kent’s brow bone. 

Kent smiles, eyes half closed and he shrugs. 

“Sometimes I like the idea of just disappearing. Like moving to a place where no one gives a shit about hockey.”

“Can I come with you?” Whiskey’s fingers trace Kent’s features. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Yeah, but not until you’re done with hockey. Because you’re too good not to get signed soon.”

Whiskey kisses Kent, thanks for the words, thanks for the sex, thanks for everything that Kent’s given him in the past three months. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent Parson may be bad at timing phone sex, but real sex? perfectly timed.   
> as much as i loved writing about just whiskey and kent, i can't wait to write more Whiskey Tango Foxtrot shenanigans. get ready for some long distance longing babes.


	22. a kid with a head full of doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faber never changes. But the boy who skates there does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from Head Full Of Doubt/Road Full Of Promise by the Avett Brothers

Faber doesn’t change. The seasons do, but Faber doesn’t. The ice is always solid, the temperature is always the same. There’s always the same sense of quiet when he first walks through the sliding doors. The sense of stillness puts Whiskey at ease as he throws his things into the locker room, finds his gear arranged just the way Ford always arranges it. Everything dries out perfectly. He knows he’s not alone, Ford’s always doing something in the equipment room, searching for an obscure screw for one of Landann’s helmets, or trying to find yellow skate laces for Ollie.

Murray and Hall are in the office. As guys file in, they tend to hang out in the players’ lounge. He can hear them the more of them show up. There’s a game of soccer happening in the hallway. 

“Yo Tango who the fuck do you think you are, Ronaldo?” He hears Wicks shout. 

He hears the sound of the ball hitting the wall, a chorus of cheers. 

“Nah boys, I’m Alex fucking Morgan.”

Whiskey shakes his head, smiling to himself. He tapes his own sticks, three before every game. Some guys let Ford and the equipment managers do it, not particularly picky about their gear. Bitty’s particular, he likes a stick taped a particular way, Chowder too, he’s always trying to find the right combination of tape and wax that’ll make him play half a percent better. Whiskey’s not like that, but it’s easy to let people think he is. It’s harder to say “I just need a minute to breathe alone” than it is to say, “I gotta tape a stick.”

So Whiskey tapes a lot of sticks. He sits in the locker room, just listening to music. He sends Kent a few snaps, in the week since he’s come back from Arizona, they’ve talked everyday. He calls Kent more often now, just to let him know how his day’s going. Kent calls him when he needs to fill time on a particularly boring off day. He doesn’t mind listening to Whiskey complain about his assignments. It’s Samwell’s first game of their second semester and Kent knows that Whiskey’s going to be nervous. So he texts, but right now he’s at physio, so it’s just Whiskey. Carefully taping the blade of the stick. He doesn’t tape it all the way to the toe, leaves just a little strip at the end. 

“Whiskey?” Ford’s voice is smaller than it usually is as she walks into the dressing room. 

Whiskey looks up, pulls one of his earbuds out and looks up. 

“Hey,” He says. 

“I haven’t really said hey since we got back,” Ford says. 

“Oh. Yeah,” he says, “Sorry. I’ve just been busy trying to get back into it with class and shit.”

“Oh yeah, I totally get it. I’ve been so distracted with Rock of Ages,I totally get it.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says.

“If you’re busy, that’s okay,” Ford says. 

“No,” Whiskey says, “no it’s… sorry I’m just fucking awkward.”

“Yeah, no shit, Whiskey, I know that you’re awkward. We’re friends.”

“It’s the game, I think,” Whiskey says, “I’m just in my head.”

“Maybe we can just talk and you can get out of it,” Ford suggests, “Like, how was your break?”

“It was good, good,” Whiskey nods, “How was yours?”

“I had a great time,” she says, “One of my brothers got really into surfing because he’s at UCLA and this girl he knows got him into it. So we spent a bit of time at the beach. It was cold as hell, I don’t know why he does it.”

“Probably trying to impress that girl,” Whiskey says. 

“Oh for sure,” Ford sits down in Tango’s stall next to Whiskey. She looks a lot smaller next to all Tango’s gear. 

“Though, I wasn’t in the press box at any Aces games, man,” she elbows him in the side. 

Whiskey goes cold but he forces himself to laugh. 

“That was a good time,” he says with a small smile on his face. 

“How did that even happen,” she leans in.

Whiskey always feels like Ford knows more than anyone knows she knows and sometimes it makes Whiskey tense up. Sometimes it makes him feel like she has everything under control and everything’s going to be okay, but right now it’s making him feel like she’s staring right through him. 

“I told you and Tango, my dad knows a guy and the guy had an extra seat.”

“Still, Isn’t Vegas like far away from Sedona.”

Whiskey shrugs, “Not much else to do, y’know?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Ford sounds almost disappointed. 

Whiskey feels his throat closing. One of his best friends is sitting next to him and he feels paralyzed by the thought of telling her something. He hates that something that makes him so happy, Kent, isn’t something he can share without jeopardizing two careers. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Ford, he trusts Ford with his business. But Kent’s is different. 

He sighs into his hands, shakes his head. 

“Nerves, man,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re really good, Connor, it’ll be okay.”

“I just don’t want the slump to go into the spring,” Whiskey says. The concern that’s been weighing on him since the slump started. He wants to end it, he wants it to break. 

It doesn’t. Samwell wins but Whiskey adds another game to his slump. He doesn’t like to break equipment, he hates it when he sees guys do that. Shit’s expensive, and even if the NCAA covers their equipment costs, he still thinks it’s a waste.  But he smashes his stick tonight. Hits it over the side of the boards as he walks down the tunnel. Everybody’s frustrated, Chowder’s got his head in his hands, and Tango has a frown on his face. They all stare at him as he sits in his stall, the broken blade of his stick in his hands. He kicks off his skates and looks around.Bitty looks like Whiskey’s just punched him, not because of the equipment but because of something deeper. Bitty tried to captain Whiskey, and it hasn’t worked . The shame hits him immediately, the anger that he’s let spill out is uncharacteristic. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

He stands up, jersey and hockey pants shrugged off. He balls up his hockey socks and walks out of the room. He’s wearing the compression layer he keeps under his gear as he trudges out to the loading dock. It’s cold and it’s wet but he’s alone and he can breathe. He sits down at the edge, legs dangling over the side. He presses his hands to the side of his head and squeezes. He feels like an idiot, he feels like a waste of ice time. But most of all he feels like there’s no one else who understands. Tango scored today, while Whiskey’s in a slump, Tango’s just been getting hotter and hotter. He wants to be happy for his friend, but he’s angrier at himself than he can find it in him to be happy. 

Whiskey misses Kent, he misses him and it fucking sucks. He’s been thinking about him since he got back. How he’s his boyfriend and how he’s hurt and how he desperately wants to be there with him. He can tell Kent’s restless, he can tell he’s frustrated. And Kent always knows what to say. He’s good like that, knowing how someone feels and how to fix it.  Whiskey hates that he’s wondering. He hates that he feels like his father might be right. That hockey’s going to end. 

“Yo,” He hears Tango’s voice, doesn’t turn around to look at him, “Uh, you alright?”

Whiskey just nods.

“Uh. Bitty left pie in the players lounge.”

“I don’t want  _ fucking  _ pie,” Whiskey snaps, “I’m fucking sick of pie.”

“I’m sure Bitty would make like, a cake or something if you asked.”

“Tony,” Whiskey sighs.

“I know,” Tango says, “I know that’s not what you mean.”

Whiskey looks up, Tango’s looking down at his shoes, looking half ashamed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Tango,” Whiskey says. 

“I feel like you’re being like… wicked hard on yourself,” Tango says. 

Whiskey shakes his head, “If I’m not hard on myself then it means I’m not doing enough,” Whiskey says. 

“It seems like you’re pretty miserable… I mean this can’t be the only way.”

Whiskey clenches his fist, “I don’t expect you to get it,” he mutters. 

“Dude, I’m just trying to be a friend.”

“And I’m just trying to have a career.”

“Well whatever you’re doing isn’t fucking working,” there’s an edge in Tango’s voice that Whiskey’s only heard once before when the football team crashed a kegster.

“I’m sorry dude. I get it if I’m too miserable to be around.”

Tango rolls his eyes, “No man. Fuckin’ no way, you don’t get to say that shit. I love you like a brother and that means I love you even when I hate you.”

Whiskey shakes his head, “That makes no sense.”

He stands behind Whiskey and puts his hand on his shoulder, “Doesn’t have to.”

Whiskey manages a reluctant smile. 

“Listen, I don’t go to Easter mass with just anyone,” Tango sits down next to him, knocks his shoulders into Whiskey’s, “That shits for family only. You’re gonna score again, Whisk. You’re too good not to.”

“Yeah, but what if I don’t,” Whiskey says. 

“Then you’ll make a great… what do you do with a communications degree? Communicator?”

Whiskey laughs, “I’m trying to never have to find out.”

Tango throws his arm around Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“Dude, we’ve got this shit,” We’re a team. 

“Sometimes I feel like I’m the weakest link.”

“Everyone’s the weakest link sometimes, dude,” Tango mutters. 

“I should go get dressed,” Whiskey stands up. 

He turns away from Tango. Walks back down the hallway. He walks past Bitty, on the phone. He’s shaking his head. His drawl gets thicker when he talks to Jack. 

Whiskey just walks past, head hung low. It feels like too much, everything feels like too much. Everything  _ is  _ too much. Whiskey sits in his stall and he tries to breathe but his lungs don’t ever feel full enough. And no one else gets it.

Finally, he walks into the equipment room. Ford’s standing there sorting through gear. 

“I need a stick,” he demands.

“Whiskey,” she says. 

“Can I have a stick. I’m sorry I broke the other one,” he mumbles. 

“No,” she says. 

“Ford, I’m not gonna break it.”

“No, but if you go out and practice like I know you’re going to do, you might end up breaking yourself.”

“Ford, I’m fine, I just need to work on some drills.”

“Hockey games are more than just drills, Whiskey.”

“And what would you know,” Whiskey spits.

Ford shakes her head, “You’re being kind of a dick,” she says. 

“Whatever.”

Whiskey snags one of his sticks, picks up his skates by the laces and walks into Hall’s office. 

“Sir,” he says. 

“Whisk,” Hall answers, “Don’t you have homework to do, son,” he says. 

Whiskey shakes his head. 

Hall sighs, Murray throws him the keys and a puck. 

“You know the drill.”

Whiskey nods in affirmation.

The ice doesn’t feel solid under his feet anymore. It’s pulling him down now, it’s fragile, it’s delicate. He feels like if he doesn’t keep moving, it’ll give out beneath him. He has to be faster, he has to be stronger. He’ll spend more time in the weight room if that’s what it takes. He’ll do anything if that’s what it takes. He feels like there’s nothing else he can do. 

When he takes his skates off, his feet are bleeding. Worn raw from skating between bluelines, faster and faster until his calves burned and his lungs ached.  He balls up his socks, throws them in the trash with his sock tape and slides his shoes on. The pain is sharp. He walks through the snow, wincing with every step. He doesn’t slow his stride. It’s like he thinks he deserves it in some way. He holds his breath as he walks up the stairs. He falls into his own bed with a grimace on his face. 

He’s so fucking sick of pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the continuously evolving saga of Connor Whisk not feeling like he deserves the things he has


	23. I'll put a bet on you any day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent's making some phone calls tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from hand me downs by the Arkells

Kent misses a great deal of things in the days after Christmas. He misses hockey, he misses being able to hold a mug and the coffee pot at the same time. But most of all he misses his boyfriend. 

He says that word over and over in his head every night.  _ Boyfriend boyfriend boyfriend.  _ Kent didn’t think he’d ever have that again, not as long as he wanted to keep playing. He does now, but it feels  _ so far away _ . 

They call each other most nights. Just to say hello, to let each other know that they’re still there. Kent feels an ache deep inside of him. It’s a terrible thing to know that there’s someone out there who wants you, who’s touched you and held you, and then to know that he’s not here. That you can’t touch him and hold him back. He hates it. He counts down the days. 

It’s sex, yeah, Kent misses having sex with Connor but he also misses being able to hold his hand, and tuck his head under his chin. Whiskey calls him one night. He looks down at his wrist as he picks up. The bandages are off but it still clicks when he moves it the wrong way, still isn’t strong enough to take a shot. He spends every day in the gym trying to get better. 

He answers the phone, lying down on the couch scratching at Kit behind the ears. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hey,” Connor’s voice is quiet. It always is at night, he’s afraid someone might hear him through the walls. It’s shakier tonight though. 

Kent watched him play. They lost to Quinnipiac in their third game back. Kent hates that he wasn’t there. Because he watched Whiskey snap his stick in half afterwards, just before the broadcast cut, as Quinnipiac was celebrating. Kent wants to hug him, and kiss the top of his head. He’d even lie to him, tell him that there are things that will matter more than hockey. Whiskey calls him every night when he gets home, but that’s been getting later and later every time.

“Connor, are you crying?” Kent asks. 

Connor inhales, “I uh… I think I might be,” he says. 

Kent has never felt every single mile between them more intensely. 

“You think?”

“Yeah, I’m just,” Whiskey paused, “Tired.”

“Your game ended a couple hours ago,” Kent says. A fact. 

“I just got home. I stayed a while just to… skate. Drills and stuff,” Kent can hear the exhaustion in his boyfriend’s voice, “I should just go to bed. It’s okay, we can talk later.”

“No!” Kent sits up even though it’s not helping anyone, “No, no. Talk to me, alright. Why were you skating after the game?”

“Wasn’t good enough,” Connor mutters. 

“Baby,” Kent says, “You were fine,” He knows it’s no use, so he doesn’t give Whiskey time to say anything in protest, “Where are you?”

“I’m in my dorm,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay,” Kent says, “What are you doing?”

“I’m kind of just standing around. My feet hurt,” Whiskey yawns

“Do you want to sit down?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“You know that you played good. You played good, okay?” Kent says. 

He can hear Whiskey’s breath shaking. 

“And I know that you don’t think good is enough. But you still deserve to be taken care of, okay?” Kent says, “So I want you to put on your pajamas,” Kent keeps his voice low. He hears Whiskey shuffling around. Setting his phone down. He hears the rustle of fabric. Hear’s Whiskey pick up the phone again.

“Okay, I’m back,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Now turn off the lights and get in bed,” Kent says. 

He hears the light switch click. He hears Whiskey’s blankets rustle. 

“Are you comfortable?”

Whiskey mumbles something in affirmation. 

“I feel like it never stops,” Whiskey whispers, “Like if I’m not always doing something to make myself better than I’m doing it wrong.”

Kent doesn’t know how to answer. He’s gotten better at managing that feeling, the same feeling Whiskey’s describing to him, but he doesn’t have the words for it. The whole therapy thing is still pretty new to him. 

“Have you thought about seeing someone? I’m sure Samwell has…”

“Therapists?” Whiskey says, “Those aren’t going to help me score.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, “But maybe… the feeling.”

“I’ll think about it,” Whiskey says, “I just have to score first. Before I do anything. I have to score.”

“Will you sleep before that?” Kent asks. It’s all he can do.

“I can do that,” Whiskey says. 

Kent wishes he was there to hold Whiskey. He’d run his hands through his hair until he falls asleep. Until Kent can feel the gentle rise and fall against his chest. He can’t, and he hates it. He settles to hit the video call button. Whiskey accepts and he sees him lying in bed. He stretches his arm out so the phone is resting against his pillow. 

The circles under Whiskey’s eyes are deep. He looks hollow and spent. His eyes are half shut. 

Kent lies down on his couch, using the armrest as a pillow. Whiskey sighs. 

“I miss you,” He says. 

“I miss you too,” Kent hopes his answer doesn’t sound too choked out.

“I remember when we went skating,” Whiskey says, blinking heavily. 

“That was a good day,” Kent says. 

“You held my hand before you kissed me,” Whiskey says, words muffled by a pillow. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “I did.”

“I trusted you,” Whiskey says,”Because you talked to me like I was a person the whole time.”

“Because you are,” Kent whispers. 

“Thank you for kissing me,” Whiskey mumbles.

“Thanks for kissing me back.”

He can’t hold Whiskey and he can’t kiss him so he watches him. As his hand settles underneath his pillow, as his other clutches his comforter, pulling it over his neck. 

“I’m gonna dream about you and the pond,” he hears Whiskey mutter. 

His chest rises and falls. Kent can hear little breaths coming in and out of his nose. And he’s asleep. He looks calm for the first time since Kent called him. 

Kent ends the call before he sneezes and wakes him up, or something equally stupid. 

He dials another number. It's a long shot but he dials a number he hasn’t called in a really long time. 

It rings three times before someone answers. His voice is rough, slow, french-canadian. 

“Parse?” Jack’s voice is confused, his accent is out in a way that it only does when he’s tired. 

“Yo, sorry, did I wake you. Is it late over there?”

“Nah,” Jack says, “We’re in Vancouver. Same time zone.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“I don’t wanna be a dick or anything, but euh,” he says, “Why are you calling me?”

“You and Bittle are happy, right?” Kent says. Patience was never his strength. 

He hears Jack shifting in what he assumes is a hotel bed somewhere in Vancouver. 

“Yeah, Yeah, Parse. We’re really happy.”

“You make it work?”

“Euh, yeah,” Jack says, “Listen Parse I don’t know what this is about. Bits and I have a really good thing going. I don’t know what you want but-”

“It’s not like that,” Kent says, “Not like those voicemails I left you when we were eighteen. We both acknowledged those were dumb as shit.”

Jack and Kent had talked briefly after Jack won the cup, after he’d come out. There were a few moments of congratulations. Jack apologized for the way the media was about to come for him, Kent told him he understood. But then they talked about the past, they still haven’t quite apologized but it’s better now. 

“Okay then, what’s this about?”

“I uh…” Kent trails off, “I’m seeing someone and uh. Well you’re like the only dude I know who’s in kind of a similar situation.”

“Congrats, Kenny,” Jack says, he can imagine Jack in his hotel room with his hands behind his head, resting against the headboard. It’s how he always sat in Rimouski. False confidence that Kent hopes is real by now. 

“I like him a lot,” Kent says, “But he feels so far away.”

“Like physically or emotionally?”

“Like both sometimes. But uh, I can deal with emotional distance,” Kent snorts, “It’s the physical distance that’s kinda killing me right now. I guess I wanted to know how you and Bittle do it?”

“Uh,” Jack says, “We talk a lot. On the phone and stuff. And Providence is only like an hour from Samwell. 

“But knowing that you can’t be there when he needs you? That’s killing me.”

“Aw Kenny,” Jack says. 

“Fuck off, Zimms,” Kent smiles. 

“I wish I was there all the time,” Jack says. He gets quiet in a familiar, serious way. 

“I just feel like…” There’s so much that Kent wants to explain and it all feels so bottled up like it’s going to burst, “Man. I fucking like him so much.”

“I’m really happy for you, Kent,” Jack says. 

“He works so hard,” Kent says, “He’s a hockey player.”

“I assumed,” Jack says. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean, Zimmermann.”

“You’d bore someone to death if they don't love hockey as much as you do.”

“Wow. Fuck you. We talk about other stuff.”

“Are you calling me because you want to come out?” Jack asks. 

“No!” Kent says quickly, “That’s not what I want. Not to the world. I should probably start by telling my mom.”

“Yeah okay,” Jack says. 

“You’re a lot more impulsive than me. I think I’d rather think for more than three seconds before I let the entire world know about me.”

“Wow. Glad to know you’re still a bitch.”

“You know it Zimms,” Kent pauses, “Okay. Listen, I will drive to Vancouver and kill you if you tell anyone. But he goes to Samwell. And that’s so fucking far away,” Kent says, “And he came to a game over Christmas and we hung out and shit. And I see him whenever we’re in Providence or Boston but like... “ Kent’s voice is a whisper, “He called to say goodnight and he was crying because he thought he had a bad game but he really didn't. He was so good and I know because I watched, because I watch every game I can. And he’s so good, Jack, he’s so good but he doesn’t believe anyone who tells them that. And he spends so long just beating himself up over it.”

“He euh,” Jack says, “He sounds familiar.”

“Swoops told me I have a type.”

Jack laughs, and Kent laughs and they laugh together. 

“You can’t tell Bittle,” Kent says, “Because I know he’d try to captain him and he’s not… I dunno Bittle makes pies.”

He can hear Jack blow air out of his nose, and knows he’s smiling. 

“He does make a lot of pies,” Jack says, “It’s kind of his way of coping I think,” Jack says, “I think it’s the whole southern ‘bless your heart’ kind of thing. He’s kind of like my dad like that. Angry as hell but he won’t let anybody see it. But maybe your boyfriend should trust him. Bits cares a lot about all his players.”

“I dunno. He’s stubborn. I don’t wanna blow this.”

“You’re not gonna blow it,” 

“Blew it with you,” Kent mumbles. 

Jack inhales sharply. 

“Sorry,” Kent says, quickly trying to course correct. 

“Do you really think that was your fault?” Jack whispers. 

“No,” Kent lies, “Yeah. Sometimes, sometimes I think I should have figured it out.”

“Kenny,” Jack says, there’s hurt in his voice, “We were seventeen.”

“I still wonder sometimes,” Kent says. 

“That was ten years ago.”

“Yeah I know.”

“What do you wonder?”

“We don’t have to talk about this. I know it’s hard, Jack,” Kent says. 

“It’s less hard now. You were there too.”

“Did you do it on purpose?” Kent asks. The words come tumbling out now that someone’s told him he’s allowed to ask. He says it because he wants to know, because he needs to know.

“I don’t remember,” Jack says, “I know that’s not the answer you’re gonna want,” Jack says, “I’d thought about it before.”

“You didn’t leave a note,” Kent says. A detail he’d come back to over and over again for the past ten years.

“No,” Jack says, “I didn’t.”

“So it was an accident?”

“As much as it could have been. I think.”

Kent and Jack are silent. They’ve grown up, grown apart, but in this moment, they feel like the same teenage boys who roomed together in the Q. Who told each other their secrets. The same boys who slept in the same bed for a year before anything happened between them because they just liked to be close. 

“There’s nothing you could have done, Kenny,” Jack says.

“I cared about you,” Kent says. 

“That wouldn’t have fixed it. I needed help. I was popping pills and drinking too much on top of it all. I was a mess. It didn’t matter how much  _ anybody  _ cared about me. It wasn’t your fault.”

In all these years, so many people have said that to Kent. Alicia, Bob, Kelli and Swoops a million times over. But he believes Jack in a way he didn’t believe any of them. 

Kent sniffs back tears. 

“What if it was something I did. If I hadn’t been there they wouldn’t have been so weird about the draft. And if we hadn’t hooked up then it wouldn’t have put so much pressure on you to hide yourself.”

“Parse,” Jack says, “No.”

“What if I do that to him?”

“Parson, Parse,  _ Kenny, _ ” he says, “You couldn’t. You didn’t break me. You’re not going to break him.”

“Providence is treating you well, huh?” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Jack answers. 

“Worked out for you

“Not if you listen to the guys on ESPN. They still think I tanked my career,” Jack says. 

“You have a cup.”

“So do you. You got yours first.”

“I don’t know why that matters so much to everyone.”

“Neither do I,” Jack says. 

“Got a head start on you for the scoring race though,” Kent teases. 

Jack laughs, “If you end up this injury prone for the rest of your career I just might catch up.”

“I don’t think taking a skate to the wrist makes me injury prone, Jack.”

“You never know, Parse,” Jack says, Kent can hear the shrug in his voice. 

“Sometimes I wish I’d skipped out on the draft,” Kent says, “I know that’s not exactly what happened but,” he pauses, “You look like you had a lot more fun.”

“It worked for me. I think you’ve gotta do your own thing.”

“Kind of fucked up though. The way the treated us. Sometimes it felt like they were shopping for the best piece of meat. Judging us based on how many pull ups we could or couldn’t do.”

“Ah yes, the combine,” Jack snorts. 

“You looked hot as fuck that day,” Kent points out. 

“Everyone did, bro. We were in the best shape we’ll literally ever be.”

“How’d you do it?” Kent asks. 

“Do what?”

“Keep playing hockey. After everything that happened. After all the shit people said about you?”

“I loved it too much,” Jack says, “You know what I mean. Nothing else feels like it.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“I took that summer to get my head right. Fixed my meds. A shit load of therapy. All that rehab stuff,” Jack says, “It was my mom who suggested I coach kids.”

“I forgot you did that.”

“I don’t tell people about it. Didn’t feel right. Dad said he’d be happy if I never picked up a hockey stick ever again, said he’d prefer it. But mom told me to try and remember why I started in the first place. Those kids loved it for the reasons I used to.”

“That’s sweet as hell, Zimms.”

“I just had to remember that it was fun. When I played for Samwell it was fun. I tried to forget everything else and just played like those kids did. For fun.”

“God, you’re a disney channel original movie, Zimms.”

“Yeah except for the raging bisexuality.”

“Was that a joke?”

“I make those sometimes. How’s the arm by the way.”

“Arms good. The guy attached to it could use some work,” Kent says. 

“You alright?”

“Hockey’s the one thing I do really well. Now I can’t do that and it’s driving me up a wall.”

“Are they rushing you’re recovery?”

“They’re always rushing us. Of course they are. I’m not complaining.”

“I know. You’re going to come back and score a goal your first game back because that’s just the kind of asshole you are,” Jack says. 

“They love that shit out here.”

“Smug motherfucker,” Jack says. 

“That’s why they hate me,” Kent says. 

“I think you’re allowed to be smug when you’re the best.”

Kent laughs. 

“You know I still like the way you play,” Jack says. 

“Mashkov thinks I’m a rat.”

“You are. I like it though. I always liked it. It’s these hockey purists who don’t like the way you play. They don’t get that we’re past Gretzky. You’re playing the way the game’s heading.”

“I always wanted to play like your dad.”

“I think he and his brain damage would tell you to avoid that.”

Kent laughs. 

“You’re really good at ignoring the shit people say, huh.”

“I make Bits take away my phone when it gets bad,” Jack says, “I think I’ve just learned how to cope.”

“I think I’m getting there too.”

“Good. I’m glad, Parse.”

“Thanks for talking to me, Jack,” Kent lowers his voice. 

“Yeah,” Jack says, “I’ve been meaning to call to talk about stuff. I just didn’t know how to start.”

“Some things never change.”

“You’re still a rat.”

“And you’re still pretending you’re not.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Kenny,” 

“Yeah, Zimms. It was good talking.”

Kent checks the schedule before he goes to bed. Next time he’s in Providence, he decides, he’ll have to buy Jack a beer. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we love an adult conversation


	24. Think of the play and not of the fame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samwell plays a game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from Flying by Stan Rogers
> 
> this chapter is just uhhh... mostly hockey because i like writing sports action

The team’s planning a kegster. There’s not much to celebrate in February. So Valentine’s day is as good an excuse as any. Whiskey’s not in much of a celebratory mood. He picked up an assist on one of Bitty’s goals in their last game but the goals haven’t come yet. Playoffs are a month away and he hasn’t scored a goal since December. People are starting to talk shit. Someone went and found the projections from his draft year that had him going 19th overall, they ask if he’s a bust. They ask if anyone ought to bother sending scouts. They ask if he has a mental block or if he just wasn’t good enough in the first place. The worst thing they ask, though is about locker room culture. 

Is Whiskey comfortable in a locker room with  _ Eric Bittle?  _ For all the puff pieces they’ve written about the new, accepting NCAA, they sure are willing to throw Bitty under the bus whenever anything goes on at Samwell. At the beginning of the year when they weren’t hitting as hard, they asked if Bitty’s locker room was tough enough. When Dex took a penalty for fighting every game for a month straight they asked if Bitty’s locker room was too emotional. 

Whenever they do something good it’s Samwell. It’s about the team, it’s about the history. Whenever they’re bad, it’s about Bitty. So Bitty bakes. And when the team tells him he has to work on his thesis instead, he avoids that by throwing himself at the team. He’s in captain mode and he’s in it hard. 

Whiskey avoids him. He sees the way Bitty looks at him after games. There’s pity and concern and all the things Whiskey hates for anyone to look at him and feel. He’s so tired all the time now. Physically and mentally and emotionally. His grades are just good enough to keep his athletic scholarship, but they’re teetering, one bad exam and he’s cooked. His muscles scream at him every day as he slides out of bed and into his sweatpants. 

He doesn’t know what to do other than keep going. Pushing and pushing and eventually, he feels like he’ll collapse and it’ll all come sliding down, crushing him in the process. 

There are nights when he calls Kent and he’s so exhausted that he can’t remember the conversation by morning. He thought, at first, when they agreed to do long distance, that technology would make the distance feel shorter. If anything, it’s making it worse. When Whiskey falls asleep with Kent on facetime, he yearns for the nights he spent next to them. When they fool around the only way they really can, with short snapchat videos and late night voice memos, Whiskey wishes he could feel Kent’s hands on him again. Kent calls him  _ baby.  _ He misses the way Kent’s breath would get hot against his neck when he was whispering sweet nothings and dirty fantasies in his ear. He googles flights to Vegas just to know that they’re there if he wants one. 

He does his best to avoid his friends’ concerns and sometimes that means avoiding his friends.

The Wellies have a “valentines” game the day before Valentines day. It’s cute, really, Ford passes out heart tape for them to decorate their sticks with. More students show up to watch when they do theme nights. Ford has the numbers that prove it. They put decals on their helmets, just little hearts on the back right next to their numbers. And Ford films a video for SMH’s twitter page. 

Some guys, when they tape a stick, will take a little piece of white tape and write their girlfriend’s name on it. They’ll tape that to the blade and let it sit under their tape job all game. Ford goes around and films them before warmups. She takes a video of Chowder writing  _ Caitlin  _ on a little piece of white tape and sticking it to his blade, it’s nothing out of the ordinary for him. Bitty’s hands run over his stick  _ Jack _ , he draws a little heart next to it. Whiskey doesn’t pay much attention. He sees the guys laughing, he smiles for Ford when she brings the camera near his stall. When no one’s looking, he rips off a little piece of tape of his own.  _ KP,  _ he writes in the smallest letters he can manage before quickly covering it with his tape job. 

“Dude, Zimmermann and Shitty are here, do you think they’ll stay for the Kegster?” he hears Wicks asking Tango.

“Yooo!” Tango says, “Shitty’s a riot, I hope so.”

Whiskey waxes his stick and takes the ice for warmies. Ford hangs around with her camera. Farmer’s in the front row, Chowder blows her a kiss from the net. Somebody’s holding a sign with Dex’s face on it, a bunch of heart eye emojis surround it. Nursey points it out to him and he turns bright red,he shakes his head, politely waves to the girl. 

“Ready to roll, Whiskey?” Tango asks. They’re on the ice next to each other stretching their legs out. Ford points her camera at them and Tango winks. Whiskey looks down, still smiling. 

“Come on man, loosen up,” Tango punches him in the shoulder. 

Whiskey smiles at him. He looks up at Ford and smiles shyly to the camera. 

Tango holds his hands up in the shape of a heart and points at Foxtrot. Ford laughs, snorting and dropping the camera. 

They stand next to each other as everybody pelts Chowder with pucks. There are five minutes on the warmup clock. 

He watches Nursey and Dex’s uncomfortably elaborate pre-game handshake that Bitty forced them to make up. 

“Let’s go boys,” Nursey’s yelling as they walk down the tunnel back into the dressing room. 

Hall gives them a final rundown on the plan, they rehydrate, stretch. Ford is taking pictures for the twitter account. 

“Say bromance,” she says as she points the camera at Whiskey and Tango. 

“Uh uh, no way,” Tango says, he snatches the phone out of her hand, throws it at Bitty. 

“Yo! Bits, snap a pic!” He shouts. 

Tango grabs Ford by the legs, Whiskey puts his arms around her torso and they lift her up between them. She shrieks, giggling. Whiskey doesn’t recognize the smile on his face when Bitty hands Ford her phone back. 

He checks his phone, hides it in his stall as he opens the text. 

**KP:** have fun!

Whiskey smiles to himself. 

Kent sends a picture, Kit is on his lap, he can see Swoops and Kelli snuggled against each other. There’s a glass of red wine on the table in front of him, a beer in Kelli’s hand and the remnants of a takeout dinner on the table 

**KP:** I really am third wheeling in my own condo

 **Whiskey:** You’re texting me, so now it’s a double date

 **KP:** We watched warmups. You look like you’re having a good time

 **Whiskey:** yeah

 **KP:** have fun. 

Kent usually ends his texts with, “Good luck,” Whiskey doesn’t think too hard about it. Not when the clock in the locker room is getting closer to two minutes. Whiskey’s on the third line. Louis is on his wing, Wicks on the other. Tango’s beside Bitty for the anthem. He doesn’t know if Hall’s given up on him and decided to reduce his ice time as a result, or if Tango’s just been playing so good that he’s earned it. Either way, it’s the first time he hasn’t been on the ice for the anthem. There’s something about being on the bench that makes his shoulders relax. He taps his stick against the board when Tango wins the faceoff. He whoops when Dex checks someone at centre ice and he goes flying. 

When he hops over the board for his own shift, he’s buzzing. But in a way that he hasn’t buzzed for hockey in a while. Like he’s excited to just play. He feels the ice underneath him. He sees Louis bouncing up and down, takes a pass from Bully and rushes down the ice. Louis has this grin on his face all the time, like he loves what he’s doing no matter what it is. He looks the same when he’s blowing out the speakers at the Haus as when he’s ripping past the blueline. Louis fakes a shot and passes it to Bully. Bully rips a shot from the hash marks. Whiskey hears it whizzing past the goalie and into the back of the net. The goal horn goes off. He hears Faber erupting in cheers, he hears the stick taps from the bench as he skates towards the celly. Louis’ hands are in the air and Wicks is grinning alongside him. 

Whiskey lets out a cheer, follows Louis down the bench knocking fists with the team. 

Bitty’s goal is perfect in pretty much every way. He’s got a 2 on 0 going down the middle with Tango to his left. He fakes it on his backhand and throws it to the net. And Faber errupts again, signs waving. Whiskey looks up and sees Jack and Shitty in the stands screaming for Bitty. And Whiskey’s on the bench doing the same thing. 

Samwell’s leading 3-0 by the end of the first. Whiskey has an assist on Louis’ goal, it’s a secondary assist. He doesn’t have time to think about how those don’t count because Tango’s jumping on his back and cheering about how they just have to keep on scoring. And Bitty’s sitting in his stall with a small smile on his face. 

“Now Lukas Landmann, you get down from there,” he halfheartedly scolds as Louis stands on top of his stall holding a speaker blasting EDM music. 

Chowder’s sitting on top of his gear catching almonds in his mouth. Nursey’s standing in the middle of the room with a bag of trailmix firing it into the open mouth of Chowder. He throws one at Dex, it hits him in the eye and he curses at Nursey. Nursey turns away, throws a handful at Tango and Whiskey. Whiskey falls to his knees, catches an almond in his mouth. The guys cheer. 

They fall silent as Hall walks in, Murray close behind. 

“Don’t let me spoil the fun,” Hall says, “Whatever’s going on here is fucking working,” Hall says, “I’m throwing the lines in a blender for the second. Just have fun, alright?” He says and walks out the door. 

Whiskey’s bouncing back and forth in his skates before the second period. 

“Whisk!” Hall yells, “You’re on with Tangredi and Landmann. Tangredi, you’re on the wing,” Hall says. 

“You got it coach!” Tango shouts. There’s still a grin on his face and Whiskey takes the ice for the facoff. 

Nursey and Dex are behind them as Whiskey wins the faceoff and drops a pass to Dex. He sees Bitty from the bench tapping his stick against the boards and he smiles to himself. 

He imagines Kent at home with Kelli and Swoops watching him. He remembers his two word instructions,  _ “have fun,” _ and so he smiles. Tango’s right next to him, Louis on the other side. Whiskey carries the puck into the zone, Louis splits the defense. They leave Tango open. Whiskey has a shot, but he passes it to Tango instead because his looks better. Tango rips a shot, it goes through the goalie’s fivehole. Whiskey throws his hands in the air. Tango’s gliding into the boards on one leg, Whiskey crashes into him, throws his arms around his friends, holds an arm out for Louis. 

“Keep it up Tangredi, nice assist, Whisk,” Coach says. 

It’s 6-1 by the third period. Whiskey still hasn’t scored but it’s easy to be distracted from that fact when they’re crushing the game. 

8-2 is the final score. Some guy tries to get into it with Dex at the end of the game. He starts shoving, but Dex just laughs it off as he skates back to the bench. He yells something foul that Whiskey doesn’t quite hear but he and Tango lean over the boards to give it right back to him. 

“Fuck you Daddy’s money!” he shouts at the kid in a Yale jersey. 

The next shift, Dex goes out and scored the empty netter. Tango finishes the game with two goals, one for Nursey, Dex with the empty Netter, two for Bitty, one of Louis and one for Bully. 

Louis cranks the speaker in the dressing room. Tango dumps the rest of his water bottle on Whiskey’s head. 

“Tanger, I didn’t even score,” Whiskey says. 

“We’re a team Whiskey,” Tango says, “And a FUCKING GREAT ONE,” He roars and the locker room cheers. Everyone’s throwing their gear into the centre of the room. Peeling sock tape off and throwing it into the middle of the room. It’s the best Whiskey’s felt after a game in a long time. 

Hall walks into the room, holds his hands out in front of her, gets Lukas to turn down the music.He obliges. 

“That was some fun hockey, boys,” Hall claps his hand, “Something clicked tonight. It’s our job to figure out how to recreate it. But that can come later, for now, celebrate this. Build off of this, do whatever it is you need to do to keep this up. I had fun tonight, boys. Hit the showers.” he says.

He turns and closes the door behind him. Lukas stands up in his stall before he hits play again. 

“Kegster, tonight, at the Haus. We celebrate romance, bromance and the fact that We! Just! Kicked! ASS!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kegster shenanigans upcoming!  
> i really really like writing sports action lmao.


	25. Let's do all the stupid shit that young kids do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty and Jack swing by for the Samwell Men's Hockey annual valentine's day kegster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is fro 8teen by khalid

“Whiskey,” Tango says, towel wrapped around his waist after the shower, “I will drag your ass of the ice if you even  _ try  _ to stay late.”

Whiskey sighs, knows it’s a war he won’t win, “Ah come on,” He tries. 

“No fuckin way, you’re ass is getting in my car, we’re going to the liquor store and picking up a six pack, and then we’re getting fucking sloshed.”

“You’re a hard negotiator,” Whiskey shrugs. 

He pulls on his jeans and a hoodie and follows Tango out of the locker room.

“How’d the video turn out?” Tango asks Ford, she’s standing in the hallway waiting. She has a Samwell red bow in her hair and a white and red striped rugby shirt tucked into a red skirt. 

“Great!” She answers, “Already hitting engagement goals that I set for the week,” she says. 

“Sick, Foxy!” Tango high fives her. 

“Is Whiskey coming?” she asks. 

Whiskey nods. 

“Thank god,” Ford says, “I was starting to get worried for your feet.”

Tango twirls his keys around his fingers as they run to his car. Tango jumps into a slush puddle on the way, they laugh. 

“What did you mean “worried for his feet,” by the way?” Tango says. 

Foxtrot shrugs, “Sometimes when I’d clean up the locker room before a game I’d find your socks in the trash.”

“Oh, yeah,” Whiskey says, “Sorry.”

“What was wrong with your socks?” Tango asks. 

“Sometimes I’d skate so long my feet would bleed a little,” he says. 

“Connor, bro,” Tango says, “You realize that can’t be helping your game at all.”

“Feels better than doing nothing.”

Foxtrot has to wait in the car while Whiskey and Tango go into the store. Unlike hockey players, theatre majors generally start college on time.

They pick up a six pack and a bottle of some pink shit to stay on theme. 

“Let’s go boys!” Tango says, he turns and looks at Ford, “I mean boys in like a gender neutral totally inclusive way, obviously,” Tango says. 

“Shut up and drive, Tango,” Ford rolls her eyes. 

They park down the block. Last kegster someone’s windshield got smashed. 

They walk in the door and the music is already blasting through the walls.

“I am here to get SHWASTED!” Tango shouts coming in the doors. 

“I knew I liked this kid!” Whiskey hears Shitty’s voice coming from the kitchen, “Nice to see you brah,” Shitty knocks his red solo cup against Tango’s case of beer. 

“Bits and Jack are in the kitchen,” Shitty says. 

“Oh my god! Lardo!” Foxtrot shouts at the small girl standing next to Shitty with her own solo cup. 

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Ford puts her arm around Lardo and they head off to talk. 

“Samwell hockey managers, brah,” Shitty says, “Speakin’ their own language. I am thrilled to see you’re still mixing tub juice,” he says. 

Whiskey laughs. 

Tango throws him a beer. He wanders into the kitchen. Jack’s leaning against the counter nursing a beer, Bitty’s baking with his own can of something on the counter. 

“Whiskey!” Bitty says, “I’m glad you made it. I was worried you were stayin’ late at Faber again.”

Whiskey shakes his head, “Uh, Tango convinced me to come here instead.”

“You looked like you had a good game,” Jack says, his voice is quiet. 

“Oh. Yeah,” Whiskey says, he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket, “Uh, I’m gonna answer this.”

He steps away to check his text. 

**KP** **good game tonight. Swoops was losing his mind.**

 **KP:** **you looked really good out there**

 **Whiskey:** **thanks. I think I had a good time for the first time in a while**

 **KP:** **I did tell you to have fun ;) glad you listened.**

 **Whiskey:** **glad you watched**

 **KP:** **what are you up to?**

 **Whiskey:** **Kegster.**

 **KP:** **ur such a frat boy**

 **Whiskey:** **you say that like you don’t find that hot**

 **KP:** **fuck you**

 **KP:** **actually fuck me**

 **Whiskey:** **why don’t you get your ass over here then**

 **KP:** **you know I want to.**

 **KP:** **maybe I’ll get to show up to a kegster and not cry about it after**

 **KP:** **that was dark. Sorry**

 **Whiskey:** **It’s okay. He’s here btw.**

 **KP:** **I talked to him the other day actually. No hard feelings**

 **Whiskey:** **huh. Okay**

 **KP:** **so you don’t have to like… punch him to defend my honour or anything**

 **Whiskey:** **I’ve got enough ex drama of my own without getting involved in yours**

 **KP:** **just have a good time.**

“Yo Whisk!” Nursey shouts across the kitchen, “What’s got you smiling,” He says over a beer. 

Whiskey just shakes his head, “Fuck of Nurse.”

The living room is filled with drunk co-eds. He smiles and lets Tango pull him into a game of beer pong against Lardo and Ford. Ford’s very very bad. Her depth perception is dubious on the best of days, after a few drinks it’s borderline dangerous. But Lardo is absolutely dominating. She wins basically on her own in fifteen minutes.

Whiskey’s feeling pretty good after he and Tango finished the six pack during the game, he’s heading to the porch to grab some tub juice. Tastes bad but gets the job done. Louis’ playing some kind of remix of “Somebody to love” and everyone’s loving it.

Whiskey turns, he’s smiling. Until he sees Chad, standing in the doorway with the rest of the lax team. He has that easy smile on his face, he’s talking to somebody, holding a cup of tub juice. He and Whiskey see each other at the same time. 

“Fuck,” Whiskey says. 

“Huh?” Tango says, he turns, looks in the direction Whiskey’s looking, “Oh fuck is that?”

“Yep,” Whiskey says. 

“Are you gonna bolt?” Tango asks.

“Yep,” Whiskey says, and he turns on his heel and he bounds up the stairs. 

Ford turns to follow him, but Tango just shakes his head. Whiskey walks through one of the bedrooms and throws open the window. He’s breathing heavy, confronted with the sight of his ex. 

And it’s not like any of it was Chad’s fault. Chad’s standing somewhere downstairs with that dumb happy go lucky smile on his face. He’s down there saying “chill” and being a genuinely good person. And Whiskey feels like a piece of shit. Because he is, or at least he was when he broke it off with Chad. He climbs out the window. 

He smells weed almost immediately. Shitty’s sitting with his legs hanging off the roof. He sees Jack sitting next to him. 

“Oh shit, sorry,” Whiskey says. 

“Nah brah,” Shitty says, “Pop a squat,” he invites Whiskey over. 

“Oh, uh,” Whiskey says. 

He sits down next to Jack. 

Shitty’s smoking a joint, he offers Whiskey a hit. 

“No thanks,” Whiskey waves his hand, “It uh, makes me paranoid.”

“Me too,” Jack says quietly.

Whiskey hears the door swing open below them. 

“Yo Shitty!” he hears Lardo’s voice. 

“Yeah! What’s kickin’ Lards!” 

“Some Lax fuckheads think since we graduated our flip cup game can’t be as good anymore.”

“Oh absolutely the fuck not!” Shitty shouts.

He takes a long drag of his joint and flicks it down into the grass, “I’ll find that tomorrow,” he says to Jack, before sliding off the edge of the roof. 

“Shitty!” He hears Lardo yell, “use the stairs dude.”

Whiskey looks over at Jack. 

“Good game,” Jack says. 

“Oh.” Whiskey nods, “Yeah it was good. I’m sure Bitty’s happy you were here for that.”

“Oh. Ha. Yeah,” Jack says, “I like seeing him that happy.”

“He’s a good captain,” Whiskey mumbles. 

Jack smiles, “He really is. Y’know he thinks you hate him, right?” Jack says. 

“Huh?” 

“It’s just,” Jack says, “From what he’s told me, you can be a little distant sometimes.”

Whiskey shrugs, “S’just how I’ve always been. I’m not good at being on a team.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I didn't have one. Everything I did I had to do by myself.”

“Sounds lonely,” Jack’s legs are swinging over the roof. He takes a sip of his beer. He’s not looking at Whiskey and Whiskey’s glad. 

Whiskey frowns, “I think it must’ve been. I don’t really know. Try not to think back to much. 

“Bits cares about you. You can tell him stuff.”

“He told you about what he saw at the lacrosse party.”

“Euh,” Jack stammers. 

Whiskey sighs, “He wasn’t the only person who saw, I’m sure. I was being kind of reckless.”

Jack shakes his head, “Nah. There’s nothing wrong with-”

“I want to play hockey, Jack.”

“It’s not like it-”

“What? Like it used to be?” Whiskey snaps,”Because you came out. No offense but one kiss isn’t changing the league.Can you honestly tell me they don’t treat you different now?”

“My team…”

“Oh I’m sure they’re understanding. It’s easy when it’s your friend, I’m sure. But your opponents? Can you honestly tell me it’s not another thing they have over you?”

“Well no.”

“They do the same thing to Bitty. I hear it all the time. Some of them would kill him if they had the choice. They say as much every game. And Bitty is never angry,” Whiskey clenches his fist, “Sometimes I just want him to get angry. Because they can’t just say that shit and I’m so angry every time but I just freeze like a fucking coward and… he just bakes pies. Why isn’t he angry?”

“I think he feels like they win if he gets angry,” Jack says, Whiskey can hear the honesty in his voice, “It bothers him as much as it bothers you. Trust me,” Jack says. 

Whiskey sighs, he takes a long drink of tub juice. 

Jack puts his hand on top of Whiskey’s, “Careful with that,” he says. 

“You’re probably right,” Whiskey laughs. 

“Can I give you some free advice?” Jack asks, he’s looking up at the night sky. 

“You should definitely charge for NHL advice.”

“This is just regular hockey advice, I’ll give it away,” Jack says. A joke. Kind of. 

“Shoot,” Whiskey says. 

“You played better when you were having fun,” he says. 

“What?” whiskey says. 

“Tonight. You were having fun.”

“It’s easy to have fun when you’re winning 8-2.”

“Sure it is,” Jack nods, “I saw you break that stick. What is it, 15 games without a goal?”

“16,” Whiskey says. 

“You don’t have to do everything alone. That’s the thing that took me a million years to learn too,” Jack says, “The goals come and they go. Sometimes you don’t get a good bounce, sometimes you get all of them. But we do this because it’s fun. That’s why we started.”

“Jack,” Whiskey says, “Every game feels like a job interview.”

Jack shakes his head, “I know. Just trust me on this one,” he says. 

“Thanks, dude,” Whiskey mutters. 

Jack just nods. 

Whiskey sneaks a glance at him, he wonders if he ever talked to Kent like this.He wonders if it would have helped them. 

“You’re good at the whole advice thing,” Whiskey holds up his cup. 

Jack smiles, he shrugs, “I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Needed some air,” Whiskey says. 

“Me too.”

“Not a big party guy?”

Jack nods, “I’m not against it or anything, I’d just rather be able to take a break when I need to.”

“I get that. My uh...my ex walked in and I kind of lost my shit.”

“Oh,” Jack says,”Are you still with the lacrosse guy?”

“No,” Whiskey says, “That’s the ex. I was kind of a dick when we broke up.”

“What happened?” Jack asks. 

“I freaked out,” Whiskey says, “This is a common occurrence for me, as you can probably guess.”

Jack laughs, “I get it.”

“Yeah. He kind of wanted to be more than just what we were. I guess I don’t- didn’t feel like I was deserving of… or like I could handle what he wanted us to be. I liked him but. I dunno, honestly,” Whiskey says. He looks down at his cup, “This shit’s uh. Strong,” he says. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sure if you talked things out,” Jack shrugged, “I dunno if you want to get back together or be friends, but if you were a dick. It’d be good for both of you if you talked it out.”

‘I uh, definitely don’t want to get back with him,” Whiskey laughs, “I think my boyfriend might have a problem with that.”

“Oh,is it?” Jack looks down. 

“Ha, no,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay cool. Privacy’s important.”

“For him especially,” Whiskey agrees.

Jack nods. He think he sees a flicker of something in Jack’s eye, a puzzled look, but Whiskey doesn’t ask. 

“I think I’ll take your advice and talk to him.”

“Yeah. Cool. Euh, you do your thing, man.”

“Hey,” Whiskey says as he’s getting up, “By the way. Thanks for being the first,” Whiskey says. 

Jack knows what he means, he nods softly, “didn’t mean to be. But.”

“Bitty seems like he’s worth it. For the record,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Jack nods. 

“I hope your guy feels the same about you.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey climbs back through the window. 

He takes a deep breath. He walks downstairs. He looks around. Tango’s in the middle of the living room. A girl from one of the sororities is pressed against him dancing. Louis is sitting in the corner with his laptop queing up the next love song. The front door is propped open to keep the airflow going as students mill in and out the door. It smells like weed and stale beer. He sees Ford beside the living room table trying to teach some of the theatre kids how to play flip cup. 

He sees Chad standing by the beer pong table watching Lardo’s newest challenger. He’s standing with a teammate laughing at something, solo cup in hand. Whiskey slides through the crowd to stand next to him. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says. 

“Hey,” Chad says back, still looking up at the ceiling. 

“You got a minute?” Whiskey asks. 

Chad looks over at his teammate, he shrugs. 

“Yeah, why not,” Chad stands up straight. 

He walks past the crowd of students and out the front door. He leans up against the rickety railing near the window and looks Whiskey in the eye. 

“So?” Chad says, his hands are crossed over his chest. 

“I wanted to talk. And just say I’m sorry. What I said to you was fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Chad says, “It was.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Nope,” Chad says, “You were an asshole for no reason.”

Whiskey looks down at his drink, taps his finger against the side of his cup. 

“I uh. It’s not an excuse but I’m thinking about talking to someone. I didn’t want to let you in,” Whiskey says, “So uh. Y’know.”

“Therapy?” Chad asks, “You can say therapy.”

Whiskey laughs, “Yeah. That,” he takes a quick sip of his drink, “I’m trying.”

“Good for you,” Chad’s tone is still cool. Whiskey knows he deserves it. 

“I really am sorry,” Whiskey says. 

“We were never going to be anything special, Connor. I was your fuckbuddy.”

“Still. I wasn’t a good friend. I didn’t let you be a good friend to me.”

Chad puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

“You were an asshole. I’m gonna be fine.”

“I just uh. This isn’t the main reason I wanted to talk to you but-”

“You’re asking me not to tank your career.”

Whiskey swallows his pride and nods. 

“I wouldn't do that to you,” Chad says, “Wouldn’t fix anything.”

“Friends,” Whiskey holds out his hand. 

“Chill,” Chad says, “Friends,” and he shakes Whiskey’s hands. 

He turns around hearing a crash inside the Haus. 

“Jack you motherfucker you are so getting fined for that!” Nursey shouts. 

“He doesn’t even go here,” someone else shouts. 

“Fine then!” Nursey cries, “I’m calling Mashkov!”

“Wanna go see what that’s all about?” Chad jerks his head towards the door. 

Whiskey shrugs, “they do this every time Jack and Bitty head up to bed.”

“TONY TANGREDI GET YOU ASS DOWN FROM THERE!” Ford’s manager voice is unmistakable. 

“Now I definitely want to know what that’s all about,” Whiskey says. 

They file back into the Haus. 

Tango is hanging onto the banister, pumping his arms. 

“When I say  _ fuck  _ you say  _ YALE, FUCK!”  _

Everyone else shouts, “Yale”

The living room devolves into a chorus of “Fuck! Yale!”

“He did say he wanted to get  _ Schwasted, _ ” Whiskey stands next to Ford. 

She rolls her eyes, “He knows how to hold an audience, I’ll give him that,” she says. 

“I’ve got gatorade in the fridge,” She says. 

“He can crash in my room, we’ll walk back when he gets his shit together.”

“For now he’s having a good time,” Ford says. 

Tango collapses around 2. Louis’ playing his “party cooldown playlist,” soon his “get the fuck out,” playlist will start. 

Whiskey squats next to Tango, taps him on the shoulder. 

“Tanger,” he says. He shakes him a little, “Tanger. Come on let’s get you into a bed.”

“Can we go for a walk,” Tango mumbles. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Yeah Tango, Ford’s just getting you something to drink. Gatorade.”

“Ahhhh Foxy,” Tango slurs, “Man I love you guys so much. Like so fucking much,” he slurs. 

He props himself up on his elbows, half sitting, half still lying on the floor. 

“I know Tango, we love you too,” Whiskey pats him on the back. He looks up and sees Ford walking into the living room holding three bottles of yellow gatorade. She tosses one at Whiskey, he puts it in his back pocket. 

“Alright, this is for you,” she hands a bottle to Tango. 

“Let’s get you up, you massive idiot,” She says. 

Tango puts his weight on Whiskey’s shoulder and stands up. 

Whiskey half walks, half drags him out the door. 

“It’s so nice out tonight,” Tango’s drunken whine is out in full force. 

“Alright Tang, drink up,” Ford pats him on the hand he’s holding his gatorade bottle in. He knocks back a swig. 

“This shit is NOICE,” Tango says between gulps. 

“Alright, man,” Whiskey pats him on the back again. 

They make across the road onto the quad. 

“Broooooooooooo,” Tango stops dead in his tracks. 

“Tango?” Ford says, “Are you gonna spew?”

Tango shakes his head, “I want that cone,” he points directly in front of them at the orange traffic cone in front of one of the residence buildings. 

“Tango, c’mon,” Whiskey pulls him away from the cone. 

“No dude, please,” Tango escapes his grip and dives for the cone. He misjudges and scrapes his hands against the sidewalk. 

“Tony,” Whiskey groans. 

He smiles up at them, “Look, I got it,” he puts his hand on top of it. 

“Tango, you’re bleeding,” Ford says. 

She crouches beside him and turns his hand over in hers. 

“Ah fuck, whoops,” he says. 

“Hold on. I have bandaids.”

She digs through her backpack and pulls out a pack of assorted sized bandaids. She takes a tube of polysporin out of a side pocket and smears it on Tango’s hand. She wipes the blood off with the edge of her sweater and gently places the pandage on his palm. 

“Better?” She asks. 

He nods. 

“Alright come one, we’re so close,” Whiskey nudges Tango towards the door. 

Ford grabs the cone and trails behind Whiskey and Tango. 

They take the elevator up the stairs. Without saying much, they get Tango into a pair of Whiskey’s sweatpants. He leans against the wall in Whiskey’s bed, still nursing his gatorade. Ford yawns.

“You can crash here too,” Whiskey offers. 

Ford just nods. 

She ends up wearing one of Whiskey’s Samwell hockey hoodies over a pair of tights she keeps in her backpack as emergency “theatre blacks,” whatever those are. She takes her bra off without taking off her shirt and Whiskey and Tango’s minds are blown. Tango’s jaw hangs open. 

“How?” he asks. 

Ford just laughs, “Every time.”

“Girls are fucking magic, bro,” Tango mutters before he finally collapses against the pillow. 

Ford squeezes into bed next to Tango. Whiskey moves to sleep on the floor but she grabs his hand and pulls him in. In the end, Ford ends up sleeping more on top of Tango than anything else and Tango’s practically hugging the wall, but they drape a blanket over top of themselves and it’s soft and warm and cozy. Whiskey lets himself have this moment with his best friends at an arm's reach. Tango snores but he doesn’t mind. Ford’s arm is draped over him, keeping the blanket securely in place. 

He falls asleep listening to the hum of his mini fridge under his desk, and the gentle breathing of his two best friends. In the morning he’ll text his boyfriend and by tomorrow evening, he decides, he’ll book an appointment with Samwell’s Student Wellness Centre. Right now he feels good, and he wants to be able to keep feeling that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a slut for adult conversations and healthy platonic intimacy (maybe not right now tho, social distancing my guys)


	26. Once in a million seconds on a broken clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent and Whiskey make plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from online love by conan gray

Whiskey wakes up staring at the alarming orange of a traffic cone. His head is pounding and he can still taste beer on his tongue. His alarm clock is flashing 8:30. Ford’s hand is still resting on his shoulder. She groans, turns to face him. 

“Morning,” Whiskey mutters. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. Grabs a bottle of water from his fridge and throws one to Ford. She nods a wordless thanks. 

“M’gonna grab a coffee,” Whiskey mutters. 

“I’ll join you,” Ford says, “Tango’s gonna be out for at least another hour,” she looks at Tango with fondness. 

They walk to the commons together. They don’t bother putting day clothes on, it’s Saturday, it’s before 9, no one gives a fuck. It’s quiet, cool but not cold. The commons are almost empty when they walk in. The Samwell dining staff is made up almost entirely of sweet older ladies who see it as a personal duty to feed college kids. Whiskey throws a few slices of bread in the toaster while Ford boils water for oatmeal next to him. 

“You have a good time last night?” She asks. 

Whiskey shrugs, “Yeah it was good,” he says. 

“I saw you talk to Chad, were you…?”

Whiskey shrugs, “We talked. I apologized.”

“Are you getting back together?” She asks. 

“We were never really together in the first place.”

“Oh,” Ford doesn’t sound disappointed but she does sound confused. 

They swipe their meal cards and sit at a table near the window. 

“The Valentines video blew up,” Ford says, pulling out her phone. 

“I never ended up seeing it,” Whiskey says. 

Ford slides her phone across the table. It’s not more than a minute long. Ford worked her ass off to get it posted by the end of the third. It’s standard stuff, guys in the locker room taping their stick. Whiskey sees the clip of he and Tango stretching on the ice before the game, Tango’s wink and Whiskey’s small smile are included. A picture of Tango, Whiskey and Foxtrot flashes on the screen with a heart filter over their eyes. Chowder and Farmer are featured heavily, Jack and Bitty embracing before the game. Whiskey sees himself in the background of a shot scrawling  _ KP  _ on his stick. No one else would be able to read it but it sends a jolt up his spine. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Ford says, “Whose name did you write on your stick?”

“Would you believe me if I said my mom.”

“No, but I’d pretend to.”

“Okay then it was my mom.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push him on it. 

“We should head over to clean up soon,” Ford says, “They’ve been cracking down on the fines.”

Whiskey shakes his head, “Shitty Tango and told him to take it easy today. Called it his “barf and rally mulligan,” I guess everybody gets one.”

“I wonder if that’s on the rules wall,” she muses into her coffee. 

Tango’s awake when Whiskey and Foxtrot arrive back at the dorms. They hand him a cup of coffee and his usual breakfast order in a to-go box. Whiskey sits on top of his desk, looking out the window while Tango picks at his breakfast on the edge of Whiskey’s bed. Ford ends up lying on the floor looking at her phone. Whiskey pulls his knees to his chest. 

**KP:** **soooo.**

 **KP:** **how bad is the hangover, frat boy**

 **Whiskey:** **you know I’m starting to think you’ve got a thing for frat boys**

 **KP:** **just one.**

 **Whiskey:** **i swear to god if you make me blush in front of my friends**

 **KP:** **that’s cute**

 **Whiskey:** **you’re the worst.**

“Okay, I don’t know how these eggs are so bad, yet I can’t stop eating them,” Tango says. 

“I can’t believe you eat dining hall eggs.”

“Me either, dude,” Tango says to Ford. 

**KP:** **and yet you put up with me**

 **Whiskey:** **happily.**

 **KP:** **You gonna invite me to one of your frat parties?**

Whiskey can’t avoid blushing by this point, he looks up, sees Tango focused on his eggs, Ford texting. 

**Whiskey:** **yeah any time. Come make out with your frat boy boyfriend in his frat boy house.**

 **KP:** **I thought you said you didn’t want to blush**

 **Whiskey:** **we’re way past that point baby.**

“Yo Whiskey,” Tango interrupts

“Hm? Yeah?” Whiskey says. 

“Who you smiling at there, bud?” Tango smirks. 

“Uhhh,” Whiskey stumbles, “Funny meme,”

“Ooh can I see?” Tango stands up. 

Whiskey switches his phone off and hides it against his chest, “Uhhh you wouldn’t really get it. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Ford flicks a piece of lint off of her sweater. 

Whiskey doesn’t dare turn his phone back on before Tango and Ford head out. Tango rents a place with some of the guys from his classes, Ford lives with the theatre kids, Whiskey’s pretty sure they live on the same street but he’s never been to either. 

Whiskey switches his phone back on when he hears the door click behind them. Kent’s last text is from five minutes ago. 

**KP:** **i like it when you call me baby**

 **KP:** **like a lot.**

 **Whiskey:** **that’s why I do it.**

 **Whiskey:** **I’m alone now. Call me?**

Whiskey’s phone starts buzzing almost immediately he answers. 

“Hi baby,” he says. 

Kent lets out a little teasing moan. 

“Hi,” Kent says, “Did you chase your friends away or what?”

Whiskey laughs, “No,” he says, “Ford had rehearsal and Tango’s doing whatever Tango does. No one really knows.”

“Ford is the manager and Tango’s the guy who scored last night?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, he feels soft and mushy and stupid for loving Kent for remembering who his friends are, “Tango got fucking wasted last night so they crashed in my room.”

“They’re lucky to have you as a friend,” Kent says. 

“No,” Whiskey says, “I’m luckier to have them. Honestly.”

“I’d give anything to be able to see you every day,” Kent’s voice is low, wanting.

Whiskey thought it would be okay to keep these two parts of his life separate. He’d been so good at it before. But now? He doesn’t know what to do with all the love and affection he has for more than just a few people. When Tango was stumbling home with him, he wondered what Kent would say if he was walking along with them. He wants to share it with everyone. He wants Tango and Ford to know because friends should know when their friends are happy. At least a little. But Whiskey knows there are sacrifices you have to make when scouts come to your games and he’s going to have to learn, he’s going to have to make bigger ones. 

“Hey?” Kent’s voice is gentle. 

“Mmm.”

“You got quiet on me.”

“Sorry,” Whiskey says,”I got lost for a second.”

“You do that to me a lot,” Kent says, concerned not an accusation. 

“I know,” Whiskey says, “I start thinking and I can’t stop.”

He hears Kent exhale, “Kit’s trying to fight a pigeon, would that help?”

“Without a doubt.”

Whiskey accepts Kent’s request to video chat. Kent flips the camera and points it at the window. Sure enough, Kit is sitting on his floor staring at a pigeon on the ledge. 

“Just wait for it,” Kent says. 

Kit takes a step back and then runs headfirst into the window. She meows, disgruntled, the bird barely moves even as she hisses and swats at it with her paws. 

Whiskey smiles. Kent flips the camera back on himself. 

“She’s been at it for like ten minutes,” Kent says. 

Whiskey smiles. 

“You’re right, that made me feel better,” Whiskey admits.

“I’m glad my idiot cat is good for something,” Kent smirks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. His smile only really goes halfway up his face. 

“You seem like you have something on your mind,” Kent says. 

“I’m just,” Whiskey starts, “You said talking to someone...it helps right?’

“Not with everything,” Kent admits, “But it helps. It’s not going to fix all your problems, but it’s someone to talk to. It’s nice to say something and have someone tell you you’re not crazy fucked up.”

“I uh,” Whiskey says, “I think I’m gonna make an appointment.”

“I’m glad.”

“Can you stay while I book the appointment,” Whiskey whispers, he feels dumb for asking but Kent nods like it’s the most reasonable thing he could say. 

“Of course,” Kent says. 

So Whiskey fishes his laptop out of his book bag. He opens his student portal and clicks on the link that says  _ Samwell Student Wellness Appointments Centre.  _

“I’m not like, crazy, right?” Whiskey asks as he looks at the form. 

“No, Connor,” Kent says, “It’s okay.”

Whiskey reads out the first question, “It wants to know if I’m in crisis?”

“Do you feel like punching anyone?”

“Not in particular.”

“And do you feel like you’re going to off yourself?”

“Not at this very moment,” Whiskey says. 

“Then you’re not in crisis.”

“That’s good to know. “

Whiskey looks at the next question. 

“What do I tell them I need help with?”

“Anxiety?” Kent suggests, “I dunno.”

“Well neither do I.”

“Just put anxiety, everyone says anxiety.”

“That’s it then,” Whiskey hits the submit button before he can change his mind. 

He lets out a sigh,”I did it.”

“Proud of you.”

He looks over at Kent,he’s set the phone on the counter. He’s opening a can of food for Kit. The first thing Whiskey notices is that he’s not struggling with the can opener. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says, “Your arm.”

“Oh yeah,” Kent says with a smile on his face, “I wanted to tell you. I’m clear to play tomorrow night.”

“Really?” Whiskey asks, just as excited as Kent sounds, maybe more, “Are you 100 per cent?”

“Like 85, but by NHL standards that makes me practically a superhuman.”

“You’ve got a point.”

“That means that I’m traveling with the team next weekend. We’re in Providence, I want to see you.”

“I want to see you too,” Whiskey whispers. 

He swallows something, it might be pride,it might be nerves, but when he does, something in him breaks and he blurts out, “I want you to meet Tango and Ford.”

“I mean yeah, okay,” Kent says. 

“As my boyfriend,” Whiskey says. 

Kent perks up at this. He finishes spooning food into Kit’s dish and sits down at his kitchen island. 

“I’d like that,” Kent says, “You trust them?”

“With everything,” Whiskey says, no hesitation. 

“You play Merrimack on Friday night, right?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“I’ll be there. We can do whatever afterwards.”

“Okay,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay.”

“Y’know,” Whiskey licks his lips, “You're Lookin’ really pretty,” he whispers the last word, “ _ baby, _ ”

“OKay I can take a hint,”

Whiskey watches Kent plod down the hallway into his bedroom. He closes the door behind him and sits up in his bed. 

“I can’t wait to see you,” Kent mutters. 

“I know,” Whiskey says, “I’ve been waiting. It feels like it’s been ages.”

“Because it has been.”

“So,” Whiskey says, “Are you gonna tell me exactly what you plan on doing with me.”

“Ahh I gotta have some surprises,” Kent winks. 

Whiskey spends the entire day sitting in his bed, Kent sits in his. They send nudes and fool around, but they also start watching an episode of  _ love is blind  _ together, and Kent plays music while Whiskey does his readings for the week. It feels like Kent is there but just out of reach. His voice, his energy, his care and attention are all there, but he can’t feel him there next to him. It feels like he should be able to roll over and plant a kiss on Kent’s neck, right above his collarbone, but he can’t. And that feels like some kind of cosmic injustice. 

When he dreams he’ll dream of Kent, and he’ll feel so real and so warmand so vivid that he’ll wake up with tears in his eyes. Frustration and longing finally culminating in a sob. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh they're in love in love  
> also i can't hang out with my friends and do dumb shit like steal traffic cones so i am absolutely living vicariously through Tango (i am also dumb, impulsive and love the homies more than anything else)


	27. I'm in love with a boy I know but that's a feeling I can never show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent and Jack show up at Merrimack to support their boyfriends. Chirping ensues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long ass title is from Jesus Christ 2005 God Bless America by the 1975 ft Phoebe Bridgers

The hockey player disguise consists of a plain black baseball cap, a pair of sunglasses and a gray bomber jacket. Kent knows he stands a chance of getting recognized at the rink, but it’s not like it’s unusual for a hockey player to watch a hockey game on his day off. No one’s going to guess that he’s there to see his boyfriend. 

Kent Parson has rumours, and he knows it, but they’re the kind people laugh and shrug off. His publicist is good at distracting the media with a carefully timed date with a supermodel. 

He tells the team his usual lie, that he’s seeing family and he’ll meet them at the airport. They don’t tell him no anymore. He thinks that deep down they’re afraid he’ll request a trade any day. It’s a fair supposition, he considers a fresh start at least once a month. 

He goes straight from the airport to the arena. Car rentals are his best friend these days. Whiskey was texting him while he was on the plane. It was sparse though, the way it always is on a game day. He walks in through a side door, tilts the brim of his hat down and jogs up the stairs. He stands behind the seats, leaning against the metal bar in a corner of the rink. No one stands near him. Warmups are underway, he scans the ice, sees Connor’s #10 before anything else. He’s standing on the ice next to the kid who wears #13, Tango. 

He looks down to the bench, sees small girl with a red hair bow and glasses standing next to the trainers, she’s holding her phone and grinning. Whiskey and Tango skate over to her. Connor looks so happy. Kent smiles to himself. The warmup clock counts down to zero, the rookies collect the pucks. Whiskey looks up as he walks down the tunnel. Kent meets his eye and they share a small smile. 

He watches Bittle standing in the hallway, he’s murmuring something with the coaches before he disappears down the tunnel. Kent looks at the stands on the other side of the rink. College kids with signs, parents who made the drive to watch the game. And one man, Kent would recognize him anywhere, even if he wan’t an idiot wearing a Falcs hat. 

Jack moves through the concourse and up the stairs to the side of the rink Kent’s standing on. Kent doesn’t move even as he approaches. 

“Hey,” Jack says quietly. 

“Evening,” Kent says back still looking forward. 

He can’t tell if they’re meant to be friends. If that’s what this is, but Jack just stands, he’s holding the game day lineup that they were handing out as people walked in the front door.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you on this coast until tomorrow night,” Jack says. 

“I think you can guess why I’m here,” Kent says coolly. 

“I’ve got a hunch,” Jack says. 

Kent isn’t looking at him but he recognizes the dry tone of his voice that means he’s smirking. 

“They’ve been playing well since winter break,” Kent sys. 

Jack nods in agreement, “They’re what? 7-2 coming back from the break.”

“And they picked up points since their second loss was in a shootout.”

“That’s a playoff team right there,” Kent says, nodding. 

“I keep telling Bits that,” Jack says, “He’s still worried.”

“It’s harder to see when you’re inside of it. You didn’t feel like a cup team until you won the cup,” Kent says. He knows. 

“You’re right,” Jack says, “Bits keeps saying it means something more this year.”

“He might be right,” Kent says. 

The music pulses through the arena as the Merrimack Warriors take the ice, Samwell follows behind them. 

“Which ones did you play with?” Kent asks. 

“Uhh,” Jack scans the bench, “Basically anyone who’s a junior right now would’ve been a freshman in my senior year,” he says, “Nursey and Dex,” he points at the two defenseman standing at the blue line, “Chowder,” he points at the goalie. And Ollie and Wicks. Good guys,” Jack says, “Oh and Bits. obviously,” Jack says. 

Kent nods, “That D pair is really something special,” he says. 

“They can’t stand each other,” Jack comments. 

“You wouldn’t be able to tell from the way they play together.”

“I’m sure they’ve grown up since I graduated.”

“So who should I be watching?” Kent asks. 

After so many years, they still have hockey, leaning over the railing and talking shop, he almost feels like they’re starting over, speaking the only language they ever truly knew how to share. Kent can smell the terrible arena coffee in Jack’s hand.

Jack thinks for a minute, “Connor Whisk,” he says. 

Kent looks over at Jack quickly, just to see if Jack’s looking at him, if he knows, if he can see the way Kent perks up at Connor’s name. He doesn’t, he just takes a sip of his coffee and continues, “Wears number 10. He’s been having some bad luck recently, hasn’t scored since November. But he’s good,” Jack says, “I’ve got a hunch he’ll break out tonight.”

“A hunch, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, “We talked the other night. At their kegster. I think he’s got some shit figured out.”

Kent wants to say that he knows what Jack’s talking about, but he can’t, he won’t. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Jack not to tell someone else, it’s that he doesn’t know if he trusts Jack with his heart again. 

“Oh,” is all Kent says. 

He watches Connor take the faceoff, the Merrimack centre’s stick doesn’t even touch the ice, Connor sweeps it up so fast. 

Jack looks at him and smirks. 

It’s a stalemate for the first, and the second. Kent watches Jack tense up every time Samwell has a scoring chance, he feels it in his body too. Jack’s eyes fly open every time Bitty goes near the puck. He can feel the anticipation in the building every time someone takes a shot. It’s part of what Kent loves about the game, the feeling in his stomach, the tension that he knows is going to be resolved by the end. Someone’s going to win, someone’s going to lose and no one knows who and everyone wants something different to happen, but at the end of it, there will be an answer. It’s simple. 

“Your goalie’s standing on his head,” Kent comments. 

He watches Chower drop into the splits and redirect a puck into the corner, 

“He’s a beauty,” Jack says. 

“Small for a goalie,” Kent says, “he’s not quite a butterfly.”

“Not a stand-up either,” Jack says. 

Kent’s eyes track the puck in a way that feels normal, not quite work but not necessarily simple either. He knows where the puck is and where it’s about to be. And standing right where it’s about to be, is Connor. He slaps his stick against the ice calling for a pass. Bitty throws a hit as one of the defenseman wrestles the puck away from him. Jack whoops along with the small but dedicated group of Samwell fans. Bitty wrestles for the puck and passes to Connor. Kent feels Jack perk up next to him, Kent stands up a little straighter. Doesn’t look away as Connor drops the puck back to Bitty. Bitty takes a shot and it bounces off the goalies pads. Kent sees the rebound and so does Connor, he rips a quick wrist shot. The goalie dives for it, it slides under his arm and into the back of the net. The goal light goes on. The Merrimack fans groan in disappointment, Samwell’s cheering section erupts, Kent is the loudest among them. 

“Nice assist number fifteen!” Jack is standing behind him yelling as Kent jumps, leaning over the railing, jumping up and down, screaming for Whiskey’s goal, pumping his fist. There’s no goal horn, no goal song. Kent can hear the entire Samwell bench yelling congratulations as Whiskey skates into the corner and looks up into the air, praising the gods of hockey luck. He looks relieved, and excited, and like he might start crying as Bittle runs into his arms, Wicks on the other side. He watches Tangredi race down the bench to smother him in a hug. Kent has never wished so badly that he could be on the bench, showering someone with affection. 

He catches Jack giving him a side eye as someone else takes the next faceoff. 

Samwell wins 1-0. The Merrimack fans are disgruntled, but satisfied that their team played well. Jack starts walking down the stairs towards the dressing room, Kent stays still. 

“You can come, Kenny,” Jack says, “I’m sure your boyfriend will be happy to see you.”

Kent swallows, his mouth dry all of a sudden. He’s been careful, he’s been calculating. He has a detailed list of everyone who’s ever had to sign an NDA for him. It’s been easy so far, because so far, he hasn’t liked anyone enough to let them in. Connor’s buried himself in Kent’s heart, he’s wormed his way into his brain, made him fall in to something that Kent is trying very hard not to admit is love. 

“I’’ll tell them you came with me.” Jack says. 

Sometimes he forgets what a good liar Jack has always been. 

He follows Jack down the stairs, slowly, carefully. He stands outside the door. The coach walks out, he can hear the celebrations from inside the visitor’s room. 

“Jack!” Hall says, extending a hand, Jack shakes it, clapping the coach on the back with a smile on his face. 

“It’s good to see you, sir,” Jack says. 

“You brought a friend,” the coach says. 

Kent extends his hand, “Kent Parson,” he says. 

“I know who you are, son,” the coach says. 

Kent’s cheeks go pink, he looks down at his shoes. 

“Aren’t you two supposed to be playing tomorrow?” The assistant coach slides out of the dressing room. 

Jack just nods, “Figured I’d show Parser how we played in the NCAA.”

“Yeah I’m sure that’s the only reason,” Murray chuckles. 

Jack shrugs, Kent’s still looking down at his shoes. 

“Bittle’s waiting for ‘ya,” the coach says, “I’m sure the boys would love to see you too, Parson,”

“Thank you sir,” Kent says. 

“Let the boys know the bus leaves in 45,” Hall says. 

“Yes sir,” Jack nods and pushes through the door. 

“I’m just gonna…” Kent says, “Actually I’ll wait out here,” he looks down at his shoes. 

“Sure,” Jack shrugs. 

Kent takes a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Again until he feels his feet on the ground and his hands in his pocket. He’s alone for the most part, equipment managers rush in and out of dressing rooms, a journalist hangs around outside Merrimack’s room, she does a quick interview, gives Kent a quick nod as she walks past. She must recognize him but he’s thankful she doesn’t stop him. Kent’s always liked college journalists better than the real ones. They’re more understanding, less pushy, most of the time anyway. 

He see s Ford walking back and forth between the bus and the SMH pile of equipment, she’s hyper focused, doesn’t seem to pay him much mind. The door to the locker room opens and Connor’s standing there. He’s wearing his under-layer, a red and black shirt and black tights. He’s grinning from ear to ear, sweat still in his hair. Kent does a quick check of the hallway, finds they’re alone. 

He surges forward and hugs Whiskey. Tucks his head into his neck and holds him tight. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Kent says into Whiskey’s shoulder. 

Whiskey drops his hand, slips it into Kent’s and pulls him down the hallway. He opens one of the heavy doors and then they’re standing outside. Whiskey’s not even wearing shoes but he pushes Kent up against the brick exterior of the arena. Kent’s hands fall to his sides as Whiskey holds him there, kissing him.

“I missed you so much,” Whiskey says out of breath. 

“You were so good tonight,” Kent says. 

Whiskey tangles his hands in the back of Kent’s hair, snatching his hat off of his head. Kent groans and opens his mouth. Whiskey pushes his tongue into Kent’s mouth, Kent moans, trying to be quiet. Whiskey’s eyes are closed and Kent can feel every callous on the hand he’s holding Kent in place with. 

“Baby,” Whiskey moans against him. 

Kent feels like he might melt with this boy pressed against him. 

“You have to shower,” Kent puts his hand on Whiskey’s chest, Whiskey tries to bring their lips together again but Kent pulls away. 

“Aw fuck,” Whiskey says, “My socks are wet,” he looks down at the damp ground he’s pulled Kent out onto. 

“Was I worth it?” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey smirks, “Meet me by my dorm?” Whiskey whispers. 

Kent’s breathless, he nods. Whiskey hands him his hat back, smiles sheepishly.

Whiskey slides back in the door. Kent takes a second to catch his breath, shakes his head. He’s trying to banish the thoughts of exactly what he’s planning on doing the second they’re alone. 

He walks back in. He sees Jack standing in the hallway, Bitty’s holding on to his waist, he gently kisses Jack’s jaw. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetpea,” he hears Bitty say, then he picks up his equipment bag and heads to the bus. Bittle brushes past Kent, he’s still cool with him, Kent doesn’t know if he’ll ever not hate him a little bit. 

“You look like you just got fucked in a storage closet,” Jack gives Kent a once over.

Kent thinks that he must turn bright red, because his ears are burning. He quickly tucks his shirt and throws his hat back on his hair. 

“Fuck off, Zimms,” Kent mutters. 

Jack just shrugs. They walk towards the front of the arena together, keys in hand. 

“I’m happy for you, Parse,” Jack says. 

“Thanks,” Kent says, it comes out choked, “It feels like forever since I’ve seen him.”

“That’s the hardest part of this whole thing,” Jack says. 

“Bittle?”

“I miss him all the time,” Jack says, “I know it’s not as far away as Vegas but it feels far.”

Kent just shrugs, “It’s the same.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jack waves as he heads for his truck. 

“Hey!” Kent shouts when he’s a few steps away, “I owe you a drink some time.”

Jack just laughs, “Yeah, Parse. Any time.”

He blasts music the entire drive to Samwell, it’s only about 20 minutes and he speeds, but knowing what’s waiting for him makes him more impatient than he’d usually be. He stops at the drugstore to buy a box of condoms and some lube, he’s sure Whiskey has some of his own but Kent’s pretty sure part of being an adult is being prepared with stuff like that. He doesn’t drink before games so he picks out a bottle of sparkling white grape juice and those little plastic wine glasses they have at conferences sometimes. 

The cashier gives him a look when he puts everything on the belt,he just shrugs. 

He imagines the headline,  _ Kent Parson seen buying condoms and non-alcoholic grape juice, who is his mistress? _

Kent sits in his car in the parking lot. There’s a glowing neon sign that lights the interior of his car orange. He listens to one of Kelli’s playlists. It’s soft and gentle and makes him want to hold someone. 

He’d never understood what people meant when they said sex was better whenitwas with someone you really cared about. Swoops would say it over and over again, like four beers in, whining about how he missed Kelli. 

He remembers being seventeen and thinking it wasn’t going to get better than handjobs and crying afterwards. He remembers being 20 and thinking it wasn’t going to get better than anonymous ab pictures on grindr and an NDA. Being 25 and thinking it wasn’t going to get better than an anonymous sex worker who was nice but unfamilliar. 

But Connor Whisk, kissing him feels better than anything else Kent has ever done with another human being. 

Whiskey’s sitting on the back of a bench when Kent finds the front of his residence building. College campuses are confusing. 

Whiskey stands up the second he sees him and Kent jogs a little as he steps over the curb. Whiskey’s kissing him so hard that it almost hurts. Kent’s pushing back and the back of Whiskey’s knees hit the bench. He falls into it, sitting down, and then Kent’s straddling him and he’s still holding a grocery bag with cups and juice and lube in it, so he sets it down beside them and drags his nails along the back of Whiskey’s neck. 

Whiskey sucks on his bottom lip, Kent moans, neck craning involuntarily. Whiskey mouths along the side of Kent’s neck and Kent is hard and he’s moaning and panting and he stops. 

“You have a bed, right?” 

And then Whiskey’s laughing, resting his head on Kent’s shoulder and smiling. 

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah let’s take this upstairs.”

Whiskey’s hands rest around his waits as they stand side by side in the elevator. Kent feels strange in the dorm building, the carpeted hallway and the doors that look the same with nametags taped in the middle. He notices a few decorated beyond that but Whiskey’s just says  _ Connor. _

“You don’t have a roommate, right?” Kent asks. 

“No,” Whiskey smiles, he taps his card against some kind of sensor and pulls Kent in. He locks the door behind him. 

“So what’s in the bag,” Whiskey says, backing Kent towards the bed. 

“I don’t drink before games, so I got sparkling grape juice,” Kent says, “We didn’t spend valentines together and I wanted to do something.”

“That’s adorable,” Whiskey whispers against his mouth, “It’s gonna have to wait though,” he bites the bottom of Kent’s lip. 

“I agree,” Kent says and he pulls Whiskey down on top of him. He kicks off his shoes, starts unbuttoning his own shirt. Whiskey pulls back and tears his own hoodie off, throwing it across the room. Kent reaches up, reverent against Whiskey’s chest. His hands trace over the outline of his abs, the curve of his muscle. 

“Fuck,” Whiskey breathes. 

He presses down to kiss Kent again. 

“I’m taking care of you tonight,” Whiskey mutters.

Kent lets out a breathy noise as Whiskey sloppily kisses down his chest, over his stomach. Whiskey’s hands slide up his torso, then he pulls Kent’s jeans down. He shimmies to get them off. He groans because Whiskey is painfully slow, like if he stretches this out then Kent will have to stay in his bed forever. Kent doesn’t mind this. 

Whiskey fucks him the same way, slow and syrupy. His moans are stifled, like a choked out sob. Kent’s looking up at him the entire time, legs thrown over Whiskey’s shoulders. He digs his nails into Whiskey’s back, lets him suck a hickey into his neck. 

Kent’s wordless, left without a thought for the first time in his life, he just gives over to the feeling. Whiskey has baby wipes in his bedside table. Cleans the mess off of both of them when they’re finally spent.

It’s well past midnight now and Kent’s sitting wrapped Whiskey’s thin sheets, wearing his black boxers and not much else. Whiskey put on his hoodie and a pair of spandex together. They’re sitting up together, arms wrapped around each other. Kent stands up and pours two glasses of the sparkling grape juice. He hands one to Whiskey and sits beside him once again, legs crossed and head nestled into the crook of Whiskey’s neck. 

“Happy Valentines,” he mutters. 

He clinks his glass against Whiskey’s, the hollow sound of plastic hitting plastic makes them both laugh. 

Kent takes a sip, Whiskey too. 

“I still want you to meet my friends,” Whiskey murmurs, he can hear the tiredness in his voice, “I know it’s stupid,” he says, his eyelids are heavy. 

“No,” Kent presses his thumb to Whiskey’s lips. 

“It feels dumb. And selfish, because I’m asking you to risk something every time I want you. Don’t I already have enough of you?”

Kent shakes his head, buries it deeper against Whiskey’s shoulder, “baby,” he says, “It’s…” He swallows, “We don’t get to have normal things most of the time. I can’t wake up next to you every day and I can’t hold your hand when we are together and I can’t kiss you after my game,” he laments, “But I can meet your friends. And that’s something normal people do, I want to be normal with you and it’s not selfish for you to want that because it’s the same thing I want.”

Whiskey’s running his fingers up and down Kent’s bare arms. 

“I love you,” It comes out of Kent before he means for it to. 

And he freezes because he’s fucked up before, by thinking people care about him more than they really do. And he doesn’t want to fuck this up, he doesn’t want to scare anyone anymore, especially not Whiskey. 

And Whiskey’s body tenses up a little next to him, his hands stop and Kent gets ready to run, but he just squeezes Kent’s bicep and kisses him on the side of the cheek. 

“I love you too,” Whiskey says. 

To be loved so gently is new to Kent. To be loved in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s going to burn out, that feels warm, not hot...it’s a revelation to Kent. 

He feels the fabric of Whiskey’s sweater against his bare chest as they lie down, he’s pressed up against the wall, Whiskey crowding him, holding him. His head’s tucked into his chest and it feels like there’s not nearly enough room. But Kent wouldn’t even think to complain. Not when he has Whiskey so close. 

“I’m scared,” Whiskey says, eyes closed. 

“Why?” Kent asks. 

“What if they hate me?”

“Why would your friends hate you?”

“For hiding,” Whiskey mutters, “You.”

“You trust them, Connor. You said so.”

Whiskey nods. 

“I went to my first appointment the other day,” he says, “It was weird but you were right. It’s nice to have someone tell you you’re not crazy,” he says, “I told her I wanted you to meet my friends. Obviously not that you were you. But she said it was reasonable to be nervous but that if I kept building it up it would only get worse.”

“She’s the one with a degree, not me,” Kent yawns. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Yeah. We study by the pond on Saturdays. Tango likes it.”

“They both seem great,” Kent says, hoping he masks the way his palms sweat at the fact of meeting the other people in Whiskey’s life. 

It’s scary, taking this thing that used to be just the two of them and seeing if it survives out in the open, however slight that openness might be. 

“They are,” Whiskey says. 

And then he’s breathing slower, eyelids fall and his touch gets lighter. And Kent lets himself fall with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they are horny but also tender  
> I still love Jack and Parse's dynamic in this, it's very fun to write them chirping each other. Also Kent's kidding himself if he thinks Jack is not acutely aware of just which member of SMH disappeared from the locker room and came back 10 minutes later blushing


	28. It's 4am again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you've heard of meet the parents, now get ready for meet the best friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from funeral by phoebe bridgers

Whiskey has never been in love like this. He knows, inherently, that part of loving someone is loving the parts of them that they’re hesitant to show. Whiskey learns about Kent’s nightmares because Kent has one while he’s sleeping in his arms. 

Kent doesn’t scream or thrash, it’s not like that. He just shoots up, suddenly awake, and Whiskey, pulled from sleep by Kent’s sudden absence, slowly, groggily sits up behind him. He tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes, doesn’t bother looking at the clock. 

Kent’s breathing heavy, like he’s trying to remember how.

“Hey,” Whiskey says, sleepy. 

Kent turns around, Whiskey can see the whites of his eyes as he scans the room. Finally they settle on Whiskey and he relaxes. 

“What’s wrong?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent just shakes his head. 

“Baby?” Whiskey puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder. 

Kent jumps a little but leans into the touch, his eyes flutter and he leans back against the pillow. Whiskey turns on his side to face Kent. 

“Bad dream?” Whiskey asks. 

“Kind of,” Kent mumbles, “I’m okay. Game day,” He offers as an explanation. 

Whiskey brushes his thumb over Kent’s brow bone as he gazes at his features. Kent furrows his brow, Whiskey’s quiet. 

“Do you get nervous?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Usually I can just go back to sleep, but this is a big one.”

“Jack?” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods, “I don’t think it’ll ever not be weird playing him.”

“It makes sense,” Whiskey says. 

He reaches under his bed and hands Kent his water bottle. Kent takes off the cap and takes a sip. 

“I feel like I’ve got to be as good as him all the time. Like I’m trying for everything to be equal. Because if he’s better, then the next morning they’ll write articles about why he would have gone first, if I’m better they write articles about how I was number one all along.”

Whiskey rubs small circles along his back. 

“And it sucks for me but it has to suck even more for him because,” Kent takes another sip of water, “That’s like the worst thing that ever happened to him and they pick it apart every time we play each other. They use gross little metaphors like  _ the incident,  _ or  _ everybody know the the Jack Zimmermann story,  _ It’s gross.”

“That’s not your fault,” Whiskey says. He presses his forehead to Kent’s and holds him in place. 

“It’s my first road game back since the injury and I’m scared,” Kent admits, “It’s like I’m feeling everything the second I finally fall asleep, and then I have to wake up. 

“Does it happen a lot?” Whiskey asks. 

“I’m restless before games,” Kent says, “Usually I take melatonin before I go to bed.”

Whiskey kisses the tip of his nose.

“I’m okay now,” Kent says. 

“Okay,” Whiskey says, he feels his pillow calling out to him. 

His voice is low and he can feel sleep tugging him back, “You don’t have to,” he starts, “have to meet my friends tomorrow if that’s too much.”

“No,” Kent says, “I really want to,”

“Okay,” Whiskey whispers, “Goodnight, baby.”

They sleep in, by Whiskey’s standards, finally stirring at 9. 

Whiskey rolls over to look at Kent who’s already looking at him. He runs a hand through his own hair and yawns. 

“What time do you have to be at the rink?”

“Five,” Kent says. 

Kent runs a hand through Whiskey’s hair. 

They eat what Kent affectionately calls a “mini-fridge disaster” for breakfast. Protein shake, protein bar, and an apple each.

Whiskey feels tender looking at Kent. He’s sitting there in his bed, blanket on his lap picking at the skin of his apple. 

“I wish I could wake up next to you more often,” Whiskey says. 

Kent frowns, “Me too. I’m sorry I woke you up,” Kent says. 

“It’s okay,” Whiskey says, “Technically it means I got to wake up next to you twice.’

Kent laughs. 

Whiskey jumps onto the bed beside Kent, tucks his head into the crook of Kent’s neck. 

He feels Kent take an unsteady breath. 

Whiskey grabs his hand. 

“Are you okay?”Whiskey asks. 

Kent just nods. 

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Whiskey finds himself repeating the words of his new therapist. 

Kent smiles softly, squeezes Whiskey’s hand, “I know,” he rests his chin on top of Whiskey’s head. Kent has to get up and call his general manager to let him know his plans for game day so he steps outside. He gives Whiskey a kiss on top of his head as Whiskey pulls out his own phone.

Whiskey asks Tango and Ford if he can bring a friend to their study session, they both agree quickly. 

**Tango:** **yeah bro. Anybody. You’re always welcome to bring whoever you want to hang out with us**

 **Foxtrot:** **I second that :)**

 **Whiskey:** **well i want you to meet a guy**

 **Whiskey:** **actually**

 **Tango:** **dude!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

 **Foxtrot:** **oh my god Connor**

 **Foxtrot:** **like a ~guy~ guy?**

 **Whiskey:** **well yeah**

 **Tango:** **is this the dude who you wouldn’t stop smiling at your phone about**

 **Foxtrot:** **Connor!!! I am SO happy for you.**

 **Foxtrot:** **I can’t wait to meet him**

He doesn’t tell them it’s Kent because that feels like a weird thing to have to explain.

Kent doesn’t hold Whiskey’s hand and that makes sense. He does follow close behind, hand almost brushing against his every now and then. There aren’t many people out by the pond, it’s still too cold for most people to bother. But Whiskey Tango and Foxtrot like the atmosphere, they like the breeze. Tango likes to skate when the ice is still around and Ford and Whiskey put up with the extra layers they have to wear. They do more lying around and shooting shit than studying, but it’s nice. 

Ford’s sitting on top of the picnic table with her textbook in front of her when Whiskey comes. Tango’s lying on the ground under the table. 

“Hey,” Whiskey calls. 

Tango sits up so fast that he almost concusses himself on the table. 

“I thought you were bringing your boyfriend, why is Kent Parson here?” Tango asks, then realization crosses his face, “OH.  _ HOLY SHIT,”  _ Tango yells, “Oh  **my god holy FUCK,”** Tango’s wheezing by this point.

Kent’s standing behind Whiskey with an awkward smile on his face. Tango turns to Ford. 

“Foxy, dude, I fucking called it. I told you, I said there was something weird about Jack Zimmermann’s biggest fan suddenly deciding to cheer for the Aces.”

“Jesus Christ, Tony, say hi before you get all smug,” she punches him in the shoulder. 

She holds out her hand for Kent, “I’m Denice Ford, some of the boys call me Foxtrot, I’m fine with whatever.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Kent says. 

Whiskey notices the same confidence in his tone that he projects during scrums. The easy charm. The PR walls are up. 

“And this is Tony Tangredi. Some people call him Tango, I call him a moron,” Ford smirks. 

“Aren’t you playing tonight, bro?” Tango asks. 

Kent nods, “In Providence. I wanted to see Whiskey while I was around.”

“Right, right, right. Boyfriend stuff,” Tango says. 

“You guys can’t tell anyone, not even the team, okay?” Whiskey says.

They both nod, instantly stone faced and serious, even Tango knows when something’s not worth joking about. 

It’s a nice day. Whiskey tries not to take it to heart when he slips his hand into Kent’s and Kent impulsively jerks it away. The snow is gone and it’s a sunny day. 

Ford sits at the picnic table highlighting what’s either a script or some kind of detailed SMH schedule. Whiskey never asks when it involves highlighters. 

Kent’s not exactly forthcoming but Whiskey’s happy to have him here anyway. It’s not perfect but it feels like enough. He’s relaxed and he’s confident, bordering on cocky. He answers all of Tango’s questions about hockey and the NHL, promises Ford that the rumours about him dating Margot Robbie are very much unfounded and then he produces a pair of tickets out of his jacket. 

“I wanted to invite you guys to the game tonight,” he says. 

“Oh wow,” Ford says, “Yeah cool,” she says. 

“I’m still wearing a Falcs jersey,” Tango says. 

“I can live with that,” Kent smirks. 

Tango and Whiskey kick a soccer ball back and forth while Kent asks Ford about the highlighters (rookie mistake)

“So when did you figure it out?” Whiskey asks when they’re out of earshot. 

“I had a hunch when I saw the picture of you in the Aces press box,” Tango says, “I figured there was someone since like November though.”

“Why?”

“You seemed happier, bro,” Tango says, “Like more than when you and Chad were just boning. Like back then you just seemed… I dunno, like just as broody but less sexually frustrated. And then I noticed how much you were looking at your phone, and you told me you and Chad stopped chilling so I figured there had to be someone. And the whole custom jersey thing was weird, but yeah. Press box was when I figured it out.”

“Nothing gets past you.”

Tango taps his head with his knuckles, “There’s usually something going on up here.” he says, “so like how…”

Whiskey laughs. He DM’d me one day and we talked all the time as friends. That Falcs game we went to was the first time we hung out in person. And then I kind of realized I wanted to be more than that.”

“Bro, I knew it. I knew you were acting weird that night,” Tango says, “That’s why I asked Ford if she wanted to go to that tea place so you can do whatever shady shit you were doing. I didn’t know it was making out with Kent Parson, but still.”

“We didn’t make out until the next time we hung out.”

“Cute, dude,” Tango says, “Does Bitty know?”

Whiskey shakes his head, “I’d rather he didn’t for now. He’d try to give me some kind of advice and that’s not what I want.’

“Okay, fair”

“Also I’m ninety per cent sure he hates Kent’s guts.”

“Why?” 

“I couldn’t fucking tell ‘ya.”

He turns when he hears Ford laughing. He sees Kent holding out his phone, hears the distinctive sound of Kit’s whining. She’s smiling, Kent looks tentatively friendly. 

It’s a good day, all things considered. There’s some awkwardness but it’s the normal kind. Nothing is exacerbated by the fact that Kent and Whiskey aren’t completely out, it’s just normal introducing your significant other to your friends kind of awkwardness. Kent leaves at 3 so he has enough time to get to the hotel and then to the rink. 

Kent doesn’t kiss him goodbye and Whiskey wasn’t expecting him to, but it does kind of shatter the illusion of normalcy. They walk back to the parking lot where Kent left the rental car to say goodbye. When Kent hugs him, he presses his fist into the small of Whiskey’s back, a tight and tender goodbye, but not what normal people do. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” Kent says. 

Whiskey nods. 

“So,” Tango says, “Lunch?”

“When are you not hungry?” Ford asks. 

“Literally only while I am actively putting food in my mouth,” Tango answers. 

They go to the dining hall, which is mostly empty in between meal times. They sit at their usual spot by the window. Tango orders two grilled cheese sandwiches and sweet potato fries. Ford chirps him while she spoons chicken stew into a paper cup. 

Whiskey stands next to her reading the soup of the day list. 

“I like him,” Ford says. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Are you happy?” She asks, to the point, Whiskey expects nothing less. 

“With him? Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“Are you planning on anything like what Jack and Bitty did?”

“I doubt Jack and Bitty really planned that,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay fair,” Ford agrees. 

“I think we want to keep it private, for now,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay,” Ford says, “Makes sense.”

“Bro that’s so fucked,” Tango says, “Not in like a way that’s your fault. Just that it’s dumb that the world sucks.”

Whiskey laughs, “ha. Yeah.”

This whole thing feels so normal when it’s small. Sneaking Kent into his dorm room, kissing him when he wakes up, even the texts about how much they miss each other, in isolation it feels like something any other couple would do. 

In those rare moments where things get big, where they talk about the future and careers, that; when it gets scary. That’s when Whiskey feels very very small, that’s when the doubts start to creep in. 

So he wants to keep it small, he wants to keep what’s theirs. 

The Falcs arena is bustling, Saturday night games always sell out in Providence. Kent got them seats a few rows back from the goalie. Whiskey is the only Aces jersey in a sea of Falcs jerseys. He doesn’t care, it’s a source of pride, a neat little secret that he has with himself. 

Tango and Whiskey do the classic “college guy in a jersey” thing and wear plain jeans and a hoodie underneath their jerseys. Ford’s always a little more put together than that. She has a Mashkov shirsey that she cut the hem off of so that she could wear it with a high waisted skirt. 

They stand near the glass for warmups. They’re at the Falcs end. Whiskey looks across the ice for Kent. He’s standing near the blue line with Swoops pointing something out about their goaltending. 

There’s someone with a sign, a little kid, it says “Hey Parson! You’re my favourite player, we came from Albany! Rock, paper, scissors for a puck?” 

Whiskey knows instantly that the video of Kent playing rock paper scissors with the kid, and then tossing him a puck is going to get about a thousand retweets. It’s cute. Whiskey can't help grinning, watching it happen. Whiskey knows that Jack used to get more signs like that, more photo ops with kids, more good PR, before he kissed Bitty. It’s another reason he wants to keep it small, he doesn’t want Kent’s life to change on his account. He doesn’t want people to find new reasons to hate him. 

Jack glides past them. Whiskey catches his eye but he doesn’t wave or even nod. Just recognize the three of them. 

Just before warmups end, Jack and Kent stand beside each other at the red line. They talk, Whiskey sees Kent laugh, and they shake hands before retreating to their own dressing rooms. 

“I thought they didn’t like each other?” Ford says. 

Whiskey shrugs, “Dunno.” 

He doesn’t say much more. Kent plays hockey like his stick and skates are just an extension of himself. He’s not a player who overthinks on the ice, he can’t afford to when he moves as fast as he always seems to. But Whiskey notices the way he takes an extra second to react while Jack is on the ice. He can see the concern. 

The Aces win, ultimately, although it’s close. Whiskey knows Kent would like very much for every Parson/Zimmermann meeting to end in a perfect tie, but it’s hockey, and hockey doesn’t care what you would like very much to happen. 

Someone comes to take Whiskey, Tango and Foxtrot to the dressing room. Whiskey knows the drill by now, he stands at the wall in the back of the room and waits for Kent to finish his scrum. Kent has an air about him when he’s answering questions. He makes reporters feel like his friends without ever actually telling them anything. He makes jokes and he smiles but he never says anything of consequence, it always leaves reporters feeling like they got more than they did. Whiskey watches the way he flips his curls, runs his hand over the back of his neck to look like he’s thinking about an answer that will inevitably be “pucks in deep, gotta play our game.” His hair’s still kind of wet and he’s just sitting there, looking like this is the most natural thing in the world. He can’t hear when they ask about Jack but he can see it, Kent’s shoulder drops, he closes in on himself a little bit and then chuckles, says something it looks like he practiced. He remembers names of journalists who he talks to at most once every few months. When the room clears, it’s just Whiskey and his friends standing there. Kent hugs all of them, post game serotonin hits hard. 

His hand grazes the small of Whiskey’s back. 

“Were your seats okay?” He asks. 

“They were amazing,” Ford gushes. 

“The game was even better, dude,” Tango says, “Like I know everybody knows this but you are like  _ so good,” _

Kent waves off the praise, “Thanks man, it’s really all about the team.”

“Ehhh,” Tango says, “You’re the guy though.”

“Hey,” Kent pats Tango on the shoulder, “I really appreciate it.”

“It was super cute when you gave that kid a puc,” Ford says. 

Kent softens, nods, “It’s an easy thing to make someone’s game.”

Kent heads off to get dressed. 

“I think I’m gonna go back to the hotel with him,” Whiskey says. 

Tango raises an eyebrow, Whiskey punches him. 

Ford also punches him. 

Whiskey blushes.

“Don’t let him be a dumbass,” she shakes her head, “Have fun, okay. We’ll see you at practice.”

She smirks, a small giggle comes out, “And be safe,” she adds. 

The tension shatters and the three of them laugh together. Even though Whiskey’s turning bright red, he smiles. 

“Tell Kent thank you again for the seats,” Tango says, “I’m sure you’ll make sure he gets the message.”

“I hate you,” Whiskey says with a grin on his face. 

Kent’s back, sees Whiskey alone, still leaning against the wall. 

“Your friends dip?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” he said, “They wanted me to thank you for the seats.”

“No problem. Hopefully bribery succeeds.”

“They liked you before the tickets,” Whiskey says.

Kent nods. 

“So, will you come back to the hotel with me?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Kent’s hand is on his back, it drops whenever someone comes within sight. 

“Yo Parser!” One of the Aces shouts just before he gets into a cab, he thinks it’s Carlson. 

Kent turns, Carlson doesn’t even give Whiskey a second glance. 

“We’re doing drinks at the hotel, Ziimmermann says you owe him.”

Kent just sighs, “I’ll see, Carly.”

“Don’t be a pussy!” Carly yells as they get into the car. 

Whiskey holds Kent’s hand in the back of the cab. 

“You should go,” he whispers. 

Kent shakes his head, “It’s not…” he trails off. 

“Just have a drink, I’ll just take a nap and be there when you get back,” Whiskey says, “Celebrate the win,” Whiskey squeezes Kent’s hand, “You should come with me.”

Whiskey shakes his head, because that’s too big. That’s too much. That’s too many people who might see. 

Kent squeezes back. 

Whiskey sinks into the soft hotel pillow, he lays on his side while Kent trades his post-game suit for a pair of jeans and a blue flannel. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to?”

Whiskey shakes his head, “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Kent kisses the top of his forehead, “How are you tired when I’m the one who just played.”

Whiskey shrugs, “Pillow’s nice,” he mumbles. 

His eyes are closed halfway when Kent shuts off the lights and closes the door. 

He’s not sure he ever falls all the way asleep but the room is darker when Kent comes back. He hears him stumble into the bathroom, flicking the light switch on the way in. He rolls over, sitting up a little. 

Bolts straight up the second he hears retching. The door’s open and Kent’s hunched over the toilet. Whiskey knocks on the doorframe, Kent looks up and sighs. 

Without saying much, Whiskey finds a plastic cup beside the coffee maker and fills it with tap water. He sets it next to Kent and sits down next to him. He puts his hand gentle on the back of his neck and rubs small circles over his skin. 

Kent lets out a small cough that might actually be a laugh and shakes his head. 

“I’m twenty-fuckin-six,” he scoffs. 

“Happens to all of us,” Whiskey says. He doesn’t have a friend who’s hair (metaphoric or literal) he hasn’t held back at a kegster.

“Ugh,” Kent says, and spits in the toilet.

He reaches up to flush it, downs most of the water. Whiskey gets up to fill it and joins Kent back on the floor. 

“Fuckin’ Carly,” Kent spits again, “He’s always trying to prove he has the biggest dick in the room. And I always play along.”

Whiskey scratches the back of Kent’s scalp. 

“Jack was so much smarter than I was. Motherfucker left by 11. And then Carly started talking shit,” there’s a slur in Kent’s voice, “Callin’ Zimms all kind of bullshit, like he was less of a man because he had a beer and bounced.”

Kent’s head lolls to one side, Whiskey hold him steady, “So I wanted to prove to him that my gay ass could drink him under the table,” he says, “Not that he knows the specifics of my gay ass,” Kent snorts, “Fuckin’ nobody knows that,” he rambles, “Zimms knows that, but he left. And Swoops left too because Kelli likes to know he’s in bed on time. Motherfucker’s so in love.”

“You’re pretty drunk, baby,” Whiskey says. 

“Oh yeah,” Kent giggles. 

Then he groans and he’s falling forward against his chest. 

It’s not a sob that comes out, but a sad laugh that wracks Kent’s whole body. 

“I’m sorry,” Kent says. 

Whiskey pats him on the top of the head, “It’s okay.”

Kent shakes his head, “I’m dumb and emotional and I talk about my ex too much and I can’t kiss you when I want to kiss you,” Kent says. 

Whiskey puts his thumb under Kent’s chin, tilts him up so he has to look him in the eyes. 

“Me the fuck too, baby,” he says, instead of denying what’s true. 

Kent swallows. 

“The last guy I loved ended up half dead on our bathroom floor,” Kent says, “There’s always gonna be a part of me that feels like I did that to him,” Kent says. 

And Whiskey can’t do anything but wrap his arms tight around Kent. 

“You didn’t,” Whiskey says, “You just couldn’t.”

“It feels like it,” Kent says. 

And so Whiskey nods, because he knows what it feels like to blame himself for something he had no control over. Rach wouldn’t have ended up in an ED ward if her uncle hadn’t died and made her feel like she had to find something she could control, and her uncle wouldn’t have died if Whiskey hadn’t dragged them to Minnesota. And he  _ knows  _ that that wasn’t his fault, but he doesn’t always  _ believe  _ it. 

So he holds Kent and he rocks his head back and forth and he makes him drink water. 

“I’m so afraid,” Kent says. 

Whiskey rests his hand on top of his head.

“I’m just afraid everyone’s going to leave me like that and the more people I care about the more people might leave. And now I’m talking to him again,” Kent says, “And he’s better and different but I’m still afraid that one day he’ll do it again and I feel like a shitty boyfriend for still caring about him because I didn’t ask you about it when we started talking gain and-”

Whiskey cuts him off, “Kent, you’ve never given me any reason to be jealous. If I’m gonna be jealous of one of your friends it’ll be Swoops because he gets to see you every day, and even then, not  _ that  _ jealous, because he’s never sucked your dick.”

And that gets a laugh out of Kent, and that’s a relief, and really, all Whiskey wants out of him. 

“Jack did,” Kent says, like he’s admitting some kind of dirty secret. 

Whiskey shrugs, “I don’t think we should be getting pressed by who each other were hooking up with when we were 18.”

Another dry laugh out of Kent. 

“You seem a lot more reasonable than me,” Kent says. 

“Because I’m not fucking drunk,” Whiskey whispers. 

Kent nods, “My head feels a little better since I hurled.”

Whiskey nods, runs his thumb over the back of Kent’s neck. 

“You need to sleep,” Whiskey says. 

“We do,” Kent agrees. 

So they turn of the light, Whiskey wipes down the toilet and the counter while Kent collects himself. 

Whiskey puts his arm around Kent as they fall into bed. They don’t bother finding pajamas, Whiskey just kicks off his jeans, Kent does the same, throwing his flannel across the room along with them. Whiskey holds him, Kent’s ever slightly smaller, and a little more wiry so his arms envelope his shoulders perfectly. He dots kisses along the bridge of Kent’s nose. 

“I love you,” Whiskey says. 

“I love you too.”

“Thank you, for today,” Whiskey says. 

“We almost felt normal for a minute,” Kent says. 

“It had to be almost an hour that we pretended for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a lot of feelings about kent parson pre and post draft and how it changed him as a person but those are sad and don't get a happy ending so i'd rather write about this. Sometimes the people you love just need to throw up tequila, get a hug, and the go to sleep.


	29. It hurts to say but I want you to stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen Whisk thinks about his son. Somewhere further north, his son is having life chats with his boyfriend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from someday by the strokes

When Jack Zimmermann kissed his boyfriend at centre ice after winning the Stanley cup, Stephen Whisk was golfing. They’d closed a deal with a client and took to the course to celebrate. It was a little after seven in Phoenix when they finished up their last hole and headed into the clubhouse. Stephen was still wearing his khakis and a dress shirt but he’d left his tie in his car and undid the buttons at the cuffs. 

He remembers laughing about a joke, something someone said about one of the secretaries. They sat down for beers at one of the tables in the clubhouse. Sportscentre was on the TV. 

He could see the celebrations on the TV. 

“Falconers?” Someone said. 

“Damn,” someone else said. 

“Zimmermann really did it that, sonofabitch.”

“You’re son plays hockey doesn’t he?” Someone turned to Stephen. 

Stephen’s eyes lit up, but he just nodded politely. He knew that no one really had any interest in hockey down here, that his son was weird for picking it over baseball. 

“Yep,” he says, “Wants to play like Zimmermann.”

Stephen Whisk was proud of his son. Always was and always will be. When he’s not with his family, not worried about upsetting his wife or putting unnecessary pressure on his son, he can say it. 

His back is to the TV so he looks confused when someone snorts. 

“Hopefully he’s not too much like Zimmermann.”

So Stephen turns around. It takes him a minute to realize what he’s looking at. It’s Zimmermann in his Falcs gear, turning, spinning, hugging a small blond boy and then kissing him. Stephen’s face drains,hands go cold as the men around him laugh. 

“Turn on the Golden State game!” Someone in their group shouts. 

Stephen quietly orders another shot and tries not to think about how he knows his son has a secret. How he’d always known something was up with his son. It wasn’t one thing at first. But there are some things about your kid that you just know.  It filled Stephen with dread, the thought of having to have that conversation. And then Connor started dating his friend and Stephen was relieved that he’d outgrown it. His son was a hockey player, he had a cute girlfriend, a path to the NHL. And then he’d noticed the way Connor got cagey about the boy who’d slept over a few times and then disappeared, he noticed how Rachel had broken up with him three days later saying she “needed to focus on schoolwork,” even though that had never been an issue.

And they got back together and Stephen thought it was better. And they broke up and Whiskey’s coach died and Stephen braced himself for his son to tell him in the year he took off from hockey but he never did. 

Then Jack Zimmermann kissed some boy on TV and Stephen remembered buying his son a Zimmermann jersey and his throat closed. 

It’s not that they don’t like gay people. It’s just that they’d rather they keep it to themselves. And now to Stephen, it’s personal. He sits in his office sometimes, a cold sweat pooling on his palms, thinking about his son, how much easier it would be for him if he just stopped being gay. 

Stephen sits in his office now, thinks about texting his son to ask how the season’s going and doesn’t. 

They’re in the playoffs. Officially now, they only have a handful of regular season games left. 

“I fucking told you you’d peak at the right time, my guy,” Tango thwacks him on the shoulder. 

His scoring slump has turned into something of a scoring streak. They’ve played four roadgames, and Whiskey’s had a goal in every single one of them. It feels good, finally, to be back where he feels he’s supposed to be. 

Ford sits on the bus with her legs in Tango’s lap while Whiskey watches Kent’s game on his laptop. It buffers slowly but the bus wifi is better than not watching at all. Every now and then, Tango glances over at the screen to check the score. It’s nice and it’s soft and Whiskey can relax. And then he gets a twitter notification. He was tagged in a tweet by some journo he followed when he first made his account. 

Can @ConnorWhisk10 and @omgcheckplease be successful on the same line when their personalities seem to clash. 

Whiskey considers throwing his phone across the bus. He sees Bitty’s brow furrow as Whiskey shoves his phone into his pocket. No one talks about him without talking about someone else. Whether it’s Jack or Bitty. The article’s talking about the accepting culture Bitty built in the locker room… and somehow framing it as if Whiskey’s not a part of that. 

He looks over, hoping Bitty’s finally going to explode, to get as angry as Whiskey feels inside all the time, but he doesn’t he just turns back to Wicks and continues their conversation. 

Whiskey walks straight into Faber when the bus drops him off. Hall throws him the keys with a sigh.

He straps on his skates and doesn’t stop moving until he’s tired enough to fall asleep on the bench. He doesn’t he pulls his jacket on and walks back to his dorm. He sleeps through his classes and misses two calls from Kent. 

He answers in the morning, as his phone vibrates off of his nightstand and onto the floor. 

“Hello?” He mumbles. 

“Hey,” Kent says, “Were you asleep.”

“Yeah, but it’s fine.”

“I thought you had class.”

“Missed it.”

“Oh,” Kent’s voice is tinged with concern that Whiskey doesn’t particularly want. 

“It’s fine. Just tired.”

“Okay. Well uh. I just wanted to call.”

“Okay,” Whiskey says, he rolls over,”Thank you.”

“That was a really nice goal last night,” Kent says. 

“Mmm,” Whiskey says, “I blew my defense assignment in the third. It could have gone better.”

“It was a little mistake.”

“We can’t make little mistakes in the playoffs,” Whiskey shoots. 

“Hey,” Kent says his voice gentle in a way Whiskey doesn’t feel like he deserves, “I know.”

“Sorry,” Whiskey says. 

“I get it,” Kent says.

His season is longer. But playoffs are still creeping up on him too. 

“I don’t wanna lose,” Whiskey says. 

“Does anyone?”

“I know,” Whiskey says, “Fuck do I ever know.” 

“Just play your game. You’re so good,” Kent’s voice goes low and reverent, “Like so good, baby,”he mutters, “Those scouts show up for you.”

Whiskey’s breath catches at that thought, there’s something tantalizingly exciting about it. 

“Do uh…” Whiskey starts, then stops, feels dumb for what he’s about to ask. 

“What?”

“Do the Aces ever send scouts?” He asks finally. 

“I’m not sure,” Kent says, “But I bet they would.”

“That’s a dumb thing to get my hopes up about, right?” Whiskey mutters. 

“What is?”

“Playing with you.” Whiskey whispers. 

Kent’s quiet, Whiskey can hear him breathing, “No,”Kent says, “I think I'd want that too.”

“I just know we’d play good hockey together,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah, me too,” Kent whispers. 

“I miss you,” Whiskey says, there’s a shake in his voice, wobbling, sad. 

“God I miss you so much,” Kent says. 

“I’m not gonna get to pick,” Whiskey says, “If I come play with you or not.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Baby,” Whiskey sighs. 

“What?” Kent says, “You weren’t drafted, you’re a free agent. You can sign wherever you want.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, dry, “The have to want me first.”

“You’re good,” Kent says. 

“No one’s going to want to take me. I’ve got baggage and college hockey isn’t the same as juniors and everyone knows that.”

“Jack did it,” Kent mutters. 

“My dad’s not Bad Bob Zimmermann,” Whiskey snaps. 

“Woah. Okay.”

“Sorry. Again.”

“I forgive you only because I know you’re already stressing over your playoff beard.”

“Fuck you,”

Whiskey scratches at the peach fuzz on his face that he hasn’t shaved yet. He wants to have at least the tiniest headstart on the playoff beard. 

“I’m right aren’t I? Don’t expect me to kiss you with dirt on your lip.”

“You’d kiss me if I had… like human shit on my lips probably.”

“Gross but accurate,” Kent says. 

“I think I have a shot at the minors.”

“Our farm team’s in Utica,” Kent bemoans. 

“I know,” Whiskey says, “We could make Bakersfield work,” Whiskey says. 

“I’d love to see you in Oilers orange,” Kent says. 

“Or Ontario, the Reign are less than an hour away by plane.”

“Ew, The Kings farm team?” Kent says. 

“You’re pickier than I am.”

“Because you sell yourself short.”

“I love you,” Whiskey says. 

“Where’d that come from?” Kent says. 

“I just like to say it.”

“I love you too. All the time.”

“What are you up to today?”

“We just got back from morning skate. So I’m just chilling. Then Kelli and Swoops are coming for dinner.”

“There’s no way you can cook.”

“You’re right. It’s movie night so we order in. What are you doing?”

“Stats homework.”

“Why does everyone in college take stats?”

“It’s required. It sucks. I hate it,” Whiskey groans. 

“You’ll get through it.”

Whiskey groans. 

“I think you’re incredibly sexy when you’re smart,” Kent says. 

“You’re weird.”

“You’re into it.”

“Unfortunately.”

Then they both laugh before Kent gets serious. 

“You know. I’m never going to tell you what to do, but I really want to see you graduate.”

“What?”

“I know that your plan was to get out of there as soon as possible,and that’s cool but if you finish…” Kent sighs, “You have so much time,” he says. 

“Kent,” Whiskey sighs, “I already feel like I’m sprinting to catch up.”

“I promise you have time. I promise you can develop just as well at Samwell as you could here.”

“Samwell’s,” Whiskey sighs, “It’s complicated.”

“It is here too. Your friends care about you a lot. You don’t have to rush.”

Whiskey’s spent a lot of time figuring out how to move as fast as possible, on the ice and through life, now the idea that he ought to slow down seems insane.

He feels small, like the hockey world could forget about him at any second, because it’s so cold and unforgiving and it moves so fast. 

“I’m scared,” he admits, “Of tanking it all again. If I make the wrong move again, it might be over.”

He can hear Kent tapping his fingers on something as he thinks. There’s a few seconds between sentences but when Kent’s voice returns it’s clear and certain.

“If you finish your degree, I’ll request a trade to wherever you end up.”

“You can’t do that for me!” Whiskey protests. 

“Hockey players get traded all the time.”

“You’re…” Whiskey stammers, “You  _ are  _ Vegas. That team is you. You built. And Swoops and Kelli, and moving.”

“I’d do it for you, in two years. After you graduate.”

Whiskey sighs. 

“Think about one year at a time?”

Whiskey snorts, “One day at a time is more my speed. I’m already losing it at the idea of a playoff run.”

“That’s a lot of attention.”

“The think pieces about Bitty are already starting.”

“Gross and homophobic.”

“Thinly veiled. They assume we hate each other.”

“Why?”

“Swallow, they reported something about me not eating Bitty’s pie right away.”

“Does Bitty still think you hate him?”

“Maybe,” Whiskey says, “We don’t talk much. I think I’ve talked to Jack more than him.”

“Did you say that on purpose because you knew it would make me jealous?”

“Maybe,” Whiskey says playfully, “I might have had a crush on him when I was eleven, but you fully hooked with him. If anyone should be jealous, it’s me.”

The laugh together, they’re long past minding the awkward silences on phone calls. 

“I’m going to watch all your games,” Kent says. 

“Okay,” Whiskey says, “I already watch yours so…”

“And I’ll come see all the ones that I can.”

“How ‘bout I win a national championship and you can kiss me at centre ice,” Whiskey jokes. 

“Yeah, right” Kent says. 

It’s a nice idea, but Whiskey knows that’s just not how it works. He can let himself think about it though. When he does his cheeks go red with embarrassment, discomfort at the idea of an audience. So he imagines finding Kent after the game and finding somewhere quiet, and smiling and kissing and it being just the two of them, because even when things are big, Kent makes him feel like he can be small.

Then he shakes his head. He doesn’t want to jinx it. 

Stephen Whisk tries to call his son at lunch, but the line is busy. He doesn’t pick up, so Stephen Whisk goes back to lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent "as much as i would like to wake up beside you every day i value your education and development as a person and a hockey player in the NCAA infinitely more" Parson.   
> He's supportive and he misses him so much and i make myself sad sometimes. 
> 
> Also the four days this fic has gone without updating is the longest it's ever gone lmao. I will probably never update less than once a week


	30. Will you go where i go?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains one therapy session, one sleepy phone call and one reference to a show i have never seen but the hockeys seem to love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from lover by tswift  
> sometimes it's just like that

The playoffs are long, and they’re hard and emotional. Whiskey’s beard comes in in patches and he has to stop himself from just shaving it off every morning. It’s not a tradition that he’s ever participated in before coming to Samwell, but it matters to the rest of the team, so he grows a beard. It’s easier than the flack he might catch for telling them he doesn't get it. 

Whiskey’s body aches and he’s tired, and every time he steps on the ice, he feels like he’s about to throw up, like if he could just hurl, all the anxiety would come up with it. 

The ECAC tournament takes some of Whiskey’s strength, the semi-finals him with a bone bruise on his shin. 

A championship. Connor Whisk could win a championship. He sucks in a breath the night after they win the frozen four. His stomach is churning, it hasn’t stopped since the start of the ECAC tournament. 

He turns on Sportscentre in time for the second period of the west coast game. The Aces are at home. Whiskey scans the ice and finds Kent, his short strides, his sudden changes in direction, his speed, is what always catches Whiskey’s eye. 

The time difference has been killer on both of them, especially now that the Aces are clawing at a playoff spot, now that Whiskey’s too tired to do much else than pass out once he gets back from practice or a game or class.  The text conversations stunts, but they try and that’s what keeps Whiskey going some days. 

He just played the ECAC semifinals and he’s tired, but he can see Kent doing the thing they both love, hockey. 

And Kent does the interview between the second and third period. Whiskey’s just glad to hear his voice again. Whiskey calls Kent, he knows that he’s not going to answer, it goes to voicemail. 

“Hi,” Whiskey says to the machine, “I just got back from our game,” he yawns, “And I’m really tired but I have your game on my laptop and I just saw you do the interview and I guess I just really missed hearing your voice. I miss you. Like so fucking much,” Whiskey says, “You’re playing really good right now. I miss you,” Whiskey says, “I think I’ve said that like four times, I’m really tired. We had a good game tonight. We’re heading to the frozen four,” Whiskey says, “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. And I love you. Okay, bye, I love you.”

Whiskey hangs up and he passes out immediately. 

He’s on auto-pilot as he goes between class and practice. He sits in his therapists office every other Thursday and it works well enough, just having someone to talk to. 

“How are you feeling about the hockey season,” she asks the morning after he leaves the message for Kent. 

“Uh,” Whiskey says, he still feels a little dumb talking about his feelings, “I’m nervous I think. But I feel like that’s normal and it’s allowed.”

Whiskey’s glad that his therapist doesn’t know much about hockey other than the fact that he plays it. He can’t think of anyone else in his life who’s on the outside looking in. 

“Is your boyfriend coming?” She asks a few questions later, after Whiskey has assured her he’s eating and sleeping enough. 

Whiskey nods, “He really wants to.”

“And his schedule?” She asks. Whiskey’s pretty sure she’s put together that his boyfriend is an NHL player, but he’s come to trust her over the handful of sessions they’ve had. At first he was guarded, didn’t give details, but then it all came pouring out. He hadn’t realized how many things he wanted to tell someone until then. 

“He has the day,” Whiskey nods. 

“So, last time we talked, you said you were planning on introducing him to your friends? How did that go?”

“Good,” Whiskey says, “Yeah, we hung out and they liked him. We uh,” Whiskey says, “We help each other. Like I went back to his hotel that night and he went to the bar with some,” he pauses, “Coworkers. He was trying to keep up with someone , but yeah, he threw up. And we talked about life and stuff. We both get a little bent up about… stuff sometimes,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s good that you can communicate like that.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Yeah. We worry about the same kind of stuff, I guess. Obviously that’s not all we do but…”

“Coming out?” She asks. 

Whiskey’s talked about it before, he nods. 

“That can be stressful,” she says. 

“Mhmm,” Whiskey bites his own lip, “It’s like… I dunno, we’re both private so it’s not like I’m dying because the world doesn’t know but it does feel terrifying that there are people who would want to know… who would look at him and me differently if they did.”

“I’m sure that the hockey world can be kind of conservative,” She says carefully. 

Whiskey nods furiously, “Yeah. Fuck,” he groans, “Sorry.”

“You’re allowed to swear.”

“Right,” Whiskey says, “They’re so… they want you to be a certain way. They never actually say it, but they do. He knows that, so that’s why we… we have to be really careful.”

“I’m sure that’s hard.”

“Yeah.”

“But your safety, and his safety are important.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Like I see Bitty taking all of this shit, all the time for being gay and it’s always the first thing any fucking media asshole says about him. That he’s the first out NCAA captain, and not like that’s something cool… just that like… he plays too.”

“And you wouldn’t want that kind of attention?”

“Well no,” Whiskey says, “It’s different for me. Bitty won’t go pro.”

“And that’s different?”

Whiskey nods, “It’s a different kind of attention, it’s bigger and crazier and so much more to deal with.”

“How does Eric’s partner deal with it.”

“I don’t really know,” Whiskey admits, “He’s Jack Zimmermann though. He’s like hockey royalty, his dad played. I’m not anybody special. If it got out, it’d be like shooting my career before it started. I don’t think it’s that everybody hates gay people, obviously some do. But most teams don’t want the headache that would come with making a big deal about it. Jack got lucky because his team was ready to deal. Like there are probably some teams that would consider it a pain that I’m from Arizona and my mom’s Mexican.”

“That’s a very difficult situation, Connor. I’m sorry,” She looks at him with all sincerity in her eyes. 

Whiskey doesn’t like to cry in therapy, but his nose does twitch a little and he looks down at the floor. He feels seen by someone who might as well be a perfect stranger. And it’s weird. But it’s working. He crosses his arms across his chest and sits back in the chair in her office that’s slightly too low. 

“I just,” Whiskey sighs. 

She looks at him, prompting. 

“I wish it didn’t matter,” he says, “I guess I feel bad for saying that,” he says. 

She shakes her head, “Why do you feel that way?”

“Well it’s like. Bitty thinks that us winning means something bigger, because of the culture and him being out, it proves that…” Whiskey thinks, “Well I guess it proves that it doesn’t matter to the hockey, but then for that to be true it has to matter a little bit because people are pointing it out… I dunno. I feel bad sometimes. That he has to take all this shit and I get to fly under the radar.”

“Connor, it’s perfectly okay to keep your sexuality private.”

“I know,” Whiskey sighs, “Sucks though. Like if we lose there are going to be people who say it’s because Bitty’s gay.”

She nods, “There will be. We talked about worrying about the things you can control last week, so what are the things you can control.”

So Whiskey takes a deep breath and he rattles off everything from taping his stick to calling his mom, to eating breakfast. 

“I think it would also be important for you to make an effort to spend time with your team. I know you have some close friends but everyone on that team has a shared experience with you. Being in the Frozen Four,” she laughs, “did i get the name right?

Whiskey laughs, nodding. 

They wrap up soon after that, she tells him that she’ll be cheering for Samwell in the Frozen Four and she smiles. 

There’s a text from Kent on his phone when he finally checks it. 

**KP:** **What are you doing tonight?**

 **KP:** **call me when you have a sec**

 **Whiskey:** **you busy now?**

 **KP:** **nope**

Whiskey hits the call button and Kent picks up right away. 

“Morning,” Kent says. 

It’s nearly noon in Massachusetts, but Kent will have probably just woken up in Vegas. 

“Afternoon,” Whiskey says. 

“I fucking hate that,” Kent groans, “It’s like even the time is trying to remind me you’re not here.”

Whiskey laughs and pulls his backpack tighter over his shoulder as he walks back to his dorm. He has a couple hours between when he scheduled his appointment and when he has to be in his next class. 

“What are you up to,” Whiskey asks.

“Breakfast,” Kent says. 

“What’s in the diet plan?”

“Eggs and spinach.”

“Wow, delicious.”

“I know, breakfast of champions, ah?”

Whiskey laughs. He’s walking through the quad, past other kids holding books, holding hands, on the phone. 

He taps his keycard to get into his building and starts up the stairs. 

“What are you up to?” Kent asks Whiskey this time. 

“Just getting in, I have class in a couple hours.”

“Gross,” Kent says, “But you have to go anyway,” he says quickly. 

“Yeah, I know,” Whiskey bemoans. 

He swipes to get into his room, kicks his shoes off and flops down onto the bed. 

“So,” Kent says, “Frozen Four, huh. I got your voicemail when I woke up.”

“Oh,” Whiskey says, remembering,embarrassed. 

“It was sweet. I was happy to hear your voice.”

Whiskey smiles to himself. Kent can make him feel love-stupid with half a sentence and he knows it. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“I’m really proud of you,” Kent says. 

The blush on Whiskey’s face deepens. 

“Are you back in your room, can we do video?” Kent asks. 

He knows how much Whiskey nods and shrugs and rolls his eyes instead of answering with his words. 

Whiskey hits the video button and he sees Kent’s face looking back at him. He props his phones against something on his counter while he pushes his breakfast around his plate. 

“Are you blushing?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Whiskey says. 

“Why?”  
“Told me you were proud of me,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Well I am. Hockey and everything else too,” Kent says. 

The sun’s shining through Kent’s window, creating a halo of golden curls on top of his head. The Aces start their playoff run on Thursday. They’ll play the Flyers in the first round. The schedule was released this morning. 

“So,” Whiskey says, “Philly, huh?”

“It’s an hour flight,” is the first thing out of Kent’s mouth. 

“I wouldn’t ask for that,” Whiskey says. 

“I know you wouldn’t,” Kent says. “You’re at Princeton though, aren’t you?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods. 

“So then I’m gonna be there.”

Whiskey sighs, “You only get one day off.”

“Yeah and I can’t think of a better way to spend it,” Kent says. 

“Wow, nice line,” Whiskey teases. 

“Thanks, I save the best ones for you,” Kent teases back, throwing in a wink for good measure. 

Whiskey laughs. 

“So,” Kent says, “I was thinking, since we both have the night off, we could get dinner together.”

“Kent you have a game in 36 hours.”

“I know, which is why I’ll order food, and you’ll order the same food and we’ll sit on skype and talk for an hour. And not about hockey, I don’t care if you summarize an episode of fucking Ozark or whatever your watching or if you jerk off and tell me how you’re doing it, I just absolutely do not want to talk about hockey tonight. We both get a break.”

“Wow, and they say romance is dead,” Whiskey says. 

“I love you too,” Kent blows him a fake kiss.

“I’m gonna nap before class,” Whiskey says. 

“Bad sleep last night?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey nods as he relaxes against his pillow. 

He watches Kent get up and sit down on his sofa. Kit curls up in his lap, her head knocks against Kent’s phone. 

“I think she misses you too,” Kent says, “Not as much as I do.”

Whiskey drifts off listening to Kent ramble about Kit and Swoops’ dog while he scratches between Kit’s ears. Kent knows Whiskey isn’t listening, but he also knows that the gentle huskiness of his voice makes Whiskey comfortable and sleepy. 

“I miss you so much,” Kent whispers before Whiskey’s fully asleep, “And I love you so much more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they are tender and in love and trying to make it work!!!


	31. The way you love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> silent promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from i get to love you by ruelle

They win in Princeton. Kent comes, as promised, makes the drive up from Philly in a rented Ferrari with Swoops and Scraps. He stands behind the crowd with a black Aces cap pulled over his hair. A couple people recognize the trio standing in the corner leaning over the railing. Swoops notices the way Kent bites his lip when Whiskey goes near the puck, and Scraps is generally just kind of oblivious to everything but sweet nonetheless so he picks up on the fact that they’re cheering for #10. 

Jack’s somewhere in the building, Kent’s pretty sure of it. The Falcs missed the playoffs by two points. That’s it, that’s overtime win, a shootout victory, that was their margin of error. It’s hockey, and Kent knows that, but god, fuck. That shit sucks. But Jack’s grinning everytime Kent sees him. In his exit interview Jack talked about how unfortunate the season was, how he felt they didn’t live up to great expectations, but Snowy would be back next season, no injury, and they’d be better. Kent believes him. Then they asked Jack about his plans and he’d smiled. Jack had never quite mastered the hockey interview smirk that Kent wore with ease. Jack managed small smiles, fleeting moments of sincerity. He said his plans were to watch Samwell’s playoff run. Someone had asked about Bittle and Jack had said, “I’m really proud of him. And all the guys. Y’know, that’s my team. It’s really special to see them do something so impressive.” Then Swoops had walked into Kent’s living room and he stopped watching the Falcs’ exit interviews. 

His hands grip the cold metal of the railing when Whiskey lines up for a faceoff, he leans over ever so slightly. He catches Swoops looking at him out of the corner of his eye, an expression that Kent can’t quite read on his face, it’s soft though. 

The Samwell fans are loud, Jack and the guy with the moustache who Kent has heard people call “Shitty” are sitting in the front row behind some kids with a sign. Every now and then, between plays, Jack looks up and catches his eye.

Kent’s tense, he’s sore too, hockey does that. But his shoulders can’t relax, his heart pounds in his chest every time Princeton gets a scoring chance and threatens to tie the game. One of the defensemen, Nurse, scored in the first to give Samwell the lead and no one’s been able to crack the goaltenders since. There’s ten minutes left in the third. 

Kent grips the railing harder. He can see Whiskey’s face on Samwell’s bench, he’s grinding his jaw, muttering something to one of his lineys and pointing up the ice at Princeton’s goaltender. It’s the look of pure focus, but also ease, competency, he knows what he’s doing. Kent can see just how badly he wants it. The Frozen Four tournament is one and done, if the lose here, that’s it. 

Kent finds himself chewing on the end of his fingernail, something he hasn’t done since he was a teenager as the clock winds down. Princeton pulls their goalie with two minutes left and Kent’s stomach turns. 1-0, Samwell. And Whiskey’s on the ice for the last 30 seconds and Kent gets tunnel vision because he can see the way his brows furrow, the way his body drops into position perfectly. And then the extra attacker gets tripped up, he’s tangled in with Tango, and Tango drops to his knees and kicks the puck out to Whiskey and Whiskey crosses into the attacking zone and guides the puck into the empty net just as the clock winds down. And Kent screams along with the other Samwell fans, he looks down and sees Jack embracing Shitty, he even finds Ford in the crowd sitting next to a tall brown haired girl in a “Chow” jersey. Kent is fully screaming, he sees Jack turn around, he catches his eye and they both smile for a second as the final buzzer sounds. Someone’s stolen Scraps, he’s always too eager to sign an autograph, too generous with his time. Kent reaches over and Swoops embraces him in a hug, he’s looking down at the ice, he can see the grin on Whiskey’s face as Tango crashes into him. It’s not a championship celebration, but they're on their way. 

Swoops slaps him in the back.

“Fuckin right, ah?” he says. 

Kent can’t do anything but grin his big dopey grin as he watches Whiskey with his arm wrapped around Tango skating past Ford, the two point to her, grinning, Whiskey’s eyes flit up to the stands and he sees Kent, and Kent sees him. Kent realizes that he’d do just about anything to see him like that forever. 

Jack’s walking up the stairs, he gives a polite nod to Kent before he stands next to him and Swoops. 

“Aren’t you guys supposed to be in Philly tomorrow?” he asks. Hockey first, that’s how Kent and Jack have always been. 

Swoops nods, “Figured we’d make the trip for a game. Nothing to do in between.”

Some guys had flown back to Vegas, but they’d all had the option to just stay in Philly between the first and second game of the series. 

“Yeah, it was a good one, eh?” Jack says. 

“Real stalemate for a minute there,” Swoops chuckles. 

“Never a dull one with these boys,” Jack says. 

“Brown next?” Swoops asks. 

Jack nods, “Back at Samwell.”

“You gonna be there?” Kent asks. 

“Got nowhere else to be,” a dry laugh. 

Kent just nods, “Next season for you guys.”

Jack shrugs, “Snowy’s coming back stronger, I’m sure.”

Swoops nods confidently, he’d played with Snowy in juniors. 

“I’m gonna go see Bits,” Jack says, “You can come,” he’s looking at both of them. 

“I should make sure Scraps isn’t… I dunno getting adopted by some hockey moms,” Swoops says, “You guys go ahead, I’ll text you later, Parser.”

Kent just nods. 

He follows Jack down the steps, hands in his pockets. They don’t talk on the way to the dressing room. Jack only speaks once they got down the stairs. 

“I think Whiskey’s probably talking to some reporter right now but I can grab him for you if you don’t want to go in.”

“Uh,” Kent says. 

Jack’s face drops, slight recognition of what he just said, “Or um,” Jack says, “Euh.”

Kent supposes he could back out, pretend he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but Kent just nods. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “uh, yes please.”

“Sorry,” Jack apologizes. 

Kent shakes his head,”No. It’s fine, it’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. 

The door to the dressing room comes flying open and just like that, Bitty’s in Jack’s embrace. Kent looks down at his shoes. He knows Bitty doesn’t like him, but it’d be weird to just walk away. Jack kisses Bitty before Bitty notices Kent standing there. 

“What are you doing here?” Bitty asks. It’s not venom in his voice, just a little bit of contempt. 

“The Aces are in Philly,” Jack says like that’s an explanation. Bitty takes it and shrugs, “You should get washed up,” Jack kisses the top of Bitty’s head. 

Bitty takes Jack by the hand, “Chowder wants to say hello,” he says and pulls him towards the door. Jack looks at Bitty like he hangs the stars… or freezes the ice before games because that matters a little more to Jack than the stars. He still manages to shoot Kent a look over his shoulder.  _ “I’ll grab him,”  _ it seems to say. They were always good at communicating with nods and raised eyebrows. 

Whiskey walks out of the locker room, coast is clear, so Kent steps forward to hug him. He feels the scratch of Whiskey’s playoff beard and that’s not even worth chirping because every time he hugs him, he wants it to last forever. And he still looks  _ so  _ happy. Kent wants to get somewhere quiet so he can tell him exactly how proud he is and kiss him exactly how he wants to, but the bus back to Samwell’s hotel leaves in 20 minutes and Whiskey’s supposed to be on it, and Kent was supposed to drive Swoops and Scraps back with him and the whole concept of adulthood and responsibilities sucks. Just as he thinks that he gets a text from Swoops,  _ Scraps is taking a cab with me me back, enjoy the rari and ur boy lmao.  _

Kent rolls his eyes but he looks up at Whiskey. 

“Can I at least drive you back to your hotel?” Kent asks without really thinking. 

“Okay. I uh… I share the room with Tango,” he mutters. 

Kent just nods, “S’okay,” he slips his hand gently into Whiskey’s, “I just want to talk to you for a minute longer.”

Whiskey’s smile is so soft in that moment that Kent’s chest starts to feel tight. 

“I’ll let the guys know I won’t be on the bus.”

Kent sees Bitty again after Whiskey shuts the door behind him to change into his street clothes. He’s staring at him with his head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed, arms crossed. Samwell boards the bus before Whiskey finally comes out of the locker room. The lights in the arena are starting to shut off. Whiskey has his backpack, his equipment loaded on to the bus. 

“What time do you guys leave in the morning?” Kent asks. 

“Six,” Whiskey rolls his eyes, “Not how I’d like to spend my Saturday morning, but it is what it is. And hey, if this was the regular season they would have made us drive through the night. So this is nice.”

“I always liked roadies in juniors,” Kent says, “There’s a lot of dumb shit you can do in a hotel. Still, actually. Not so much now that we’re all old.”

“Babe, you’re 26,” Whiskey pushes open the door to the parking lot. 

“I know, I’m ancient.”

“If you’re ancient then what does that make me?” Whiskey teases as Kent walks towards the ferarri. 

“Holy shit,” Whiskey groans when he sees the car, “Am I your mid-life crisis,” he mocks. 

“Asshole,” Kent says. 

And then Whiskey’s on top of him, pressing him against the side of the car and kissing him. Kent’s hand shoots up to tangle his fingers in Whiskey’s hair, still damp from the shower. Whiskey’s hands are pressed into the small of Kent’s back, pulling their bodies together. 

And Kent just lets go, he leans into it, opens his mouth to let Whiskey’s tongue in and he groans. His lips fall away for a moment, taking in a breath, but just as quickly they surge back together. 

And then Whiskey pulls away, shaking his head,he laughs and Kent laughs too, because they’re in a parking lot. Kent pulls Whiskey’s head down slightly so their foreheads touch. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, “You did so good tonight.”

Whiskey gets a dark look in his eye as he opens the car door, just as soon as it’s there, it goes away and he blushes. 

“It was an empty netter.”

“You’re still on a point streak. Do you know how amazing it feels to be sitting in the stands knowing that it’s  _ my boyfriend  _ who’s out there scoring all those points?”

“Same way I felt sitting in the press box of the Aces game.”

Kent steals a quick kiss, this one a lot more chaste than the one they just shared. 

As Kent drives, Whiskey’s hand slips across the dashboard, his hand gripping Kent’s thigh. And Kent’s been harbouring a semi since Whiskey pushed him up against the car, and well, when you only get to see your boyfriend once a month if your lucky, well, it doesn’t take much. 

He can feel Whiskey’s breath, hot on his ear as he leans over the centre console. 

“Find somewhere to pull over.”

“Uh, wh-why?” Kent asks. 

“I wanna suck your dick,” Whiskey says, matter of fact. 

“Oh. In that case,” Kent says. 

They pull over into some kind of residential area, it’s dark and the windows of the car are tinted enough, but still, Kent feels like he’s doing something illicit. The thrill of that, of course, is kind of a massive turn on. Whiskey leans over and undoes Kent’s pants with one hand, undoing his seatbelt with the other. And Kent leans back in his seat and he feels Whiskey’s mouth on him and it’s been too long since he’s felt close like this. 

His hands tangle in Whiskey’s hair, he tugs slightly because he knows he likes that. 

“Feels so good,” Kent says,letting his voice go husky because he knows Whiskey likes it. 

Whiskey lets out a moan as he swallows Kent all the way down. 

“Keep talking to me,” Whiskey says breathlessly, his tongue teasing over the tip of Kent’s dick. 

He doesn’t have to tell Kent twice, “You’re so good,” he says, his fingernails scratch at Whiskey’s scalp and Whiskey swallows him down again. 

“Fuck you’re so good,” Kent says. 

Whiskey moans again, Kent throws his head back against the seat, one hand in Whiskey’s hair, the other on his shoulder. 

“I fucking love you, holy shit,” Kent says, “I just want you,” he huffs out a breath. 

He can see Whiskey writhing against the console, hand grasping his own dick through his sweatpants. Kent looks down, watching his face as he keeps muttering. 

“I’ve been thinking about you ever night, fuck, when I jerk off and think about how much better it would be if it was you.” Kent hisses, “I love hearing your voice every night when you call me and you do so much and… uhhh,” Kent snaps his eyes closed. 

“I want whatever you give to me,” Kent says, “I want you so bad, you’re so good- shit,” Kent groans, “I love you so much,” Kent whispers. 

Whiskey groans, his hand resting on Kent’s thigh.

“I love this so much, I love you, Connor. Fuck!” Kent groans, “Mmm’gonna. Oh fuck you’re gonna make me,” Kent whispers. 

Whiskey bares down harder, Kent watches his dick disappear into Whiskey’s mouth and he looks so good, spit trailing down his chin, lips red and puffy, eyes looking up at Kent, dark and lustful. Kent’s chest heaves, eyes closed as he feels his orgasm building. And Whiskey just stays there, bobbing up and down, Kent feels himself hit the back of his throat when he comes. Whiskey stays there, holding him in his mouth, letting Kent ride it out before he pulls off. He wipes a bit of spit off of his cheek and looks up at Kent,a glint in his eyes.

“That was really good,” Kent whispers, leaning back in his seat. 

“Do you want?” Kent points at Whiskey’s pants, “I mean, can I?”

Whiskey shakes his head, “I kind of already…”

“Oh like… just now?”

“Yeah...it’s uh. It’s been a while. And I really liked it when you talked to me, kind of embarrassing,” Whiskey mumbles.

Kent has to remind himself to close his mouth as he stares, he shakes his head. 

“No that’s… uh. Well that’s pretty hot actually,” Kent says. 

Whiskey smirks, “You’re disgusting.”

“Yes,” Kent says and leans over the console, cupping Whiskey’s face in his hand and kissing him slow and gentle. He can taste himself on Whiskey’s tongue but that’s not going to stop him from crawling over the console and half straddling, half curling up in his boyfriend’s lap. He’s lazy now, pliant as Whiskey cups his face and plays with his hair. He kisses the bottom of Whiskey’s jaw and Whiskey shudders a little. 

Kent never thought that he’d get this. To hold and be held, to have someone to sneak away with and kiss out of sight. He had always thought that you only get to love one time in your whole life, but now, curled up against this boy’s chest in some stupid car that Scraps had convinced him to rent, he’s sure that he was wrong. 

He always thought that he could have one, he could have hockey, or he could have love. But the man that he loves is about to play for an NCAA championship and he played a Stanley Cup playoff game last night and he doesn’t care who knows and who doesn’t know because he knows. And his boyfriend calls him  _ baby  _ and he makes him pull over at the side of the road so they can get each other off and he hugs him after his games and calls him in the morning just to say hello. And Kent didn’t ever think it could be like this.

And then he’s crying, stifling tears against Whiskey’s sweatshirt, clutching at the fabric. And it’s not like anything is wrong, everything is  _ so so so  _ right and it doesn’t feel real, but it is, and he is, and they are. 

“Hey,” Whiskey smooths out the top of his hair, “What’s wrong?”

Kent just shakes his head, smiling through his tears, “Nothing,”

“Then why are you crying?” Whiskey half laughs. 

“I get to love you,” Kent says after a short pause. 

“What?” Whiskey says, small smile still on his lips.

“I just,” Kent clenches his fist against Whiskey’s shirt, “I just never thought. I mean… after and all the stuff that happened, I didn’t think…” He blows out a breath, “I just really fucking love you.”

Kent worries for a minute that Whiskey’s going to jump, panicky, scared off by Kent’s feelings, because Kent’s never thought anyone would take him like this, feelings and all. But Whiskey’s holding him as firm and as warm as he had been a minute ago. 

“I love you too,” Whiskey says. 

When Whiskey pulls his face up for a kiss, Kent can feel a tear rolling down Whiskey’s cheek against his own.

Kent Parson is the winner of a Stanley Cup, owner of a Calder trophy, perennial nominee for the Rocket Richard, and the best feeling is knowing that he can be all these things, and still get to be in love with a boy. That he can do so many big things, have so many big moments, and still get to feel these small ones. 

“I should get you back,” Kent says. 

Whiskey just shrugs. 

“Nah, you have to be up early.”

And Kent realizes that part of being in love as an adult is more than just impulse. That he can pull over at the side of the road and sneak kisses, but now it’s knowing his schedule. Holding his hand and talking about his homework and Kent has never felt happier to reluctantly tell someone to go to bed. 

“Can we just stay here a little bit longer?” Whiskey asks. 

So Kent nods, because he’s learning how to ride that line of being in a real, adult, kind of love and he thinks part of it is listening to what Whiskey wants to do, not just what he should do. 

“I hope you win,” Whiskey says under his breath. 

“I hope we win too,” Kent says.

They’d lost the first game 4-3. It still stung a bit. 

“Kinda wanna prove we can do it again.”

Whiskey nods, runs his hands gently over Kent’s arms, “You can.”

Kent nods, “Yeah.”

“M’gonna be there when you do,” Whiskey kisses the top of his head. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Please.”

Whiskey nods, like it’s a promise. 

“Tony’s gonna think I kidnapped you if we don’t head back soon,” Kent whispers. 

Whiskey nods, “Yeah.”

They’re talking the whole time, about hockey now, because that’s part of their life it’s who they are. 

“I never thought there’d be a team more stocked with rats than us,” Kent says. 

And Whiskey laughs. 

“Hey,” Whiskey puts his hand on top of Kent’s hand as Kent pulls up in front of the hotel, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He doesn’t have to say it, but he does, Kent knows he will. But hearing it is nice too. 

“Goodbye,” Whiskey smiles, shy and sweet like they didn’t just spend an hour hooking up at the side of the road. 

“Goodbye,” Kent says back, “I love you,” he adds. 

“I love you too.”

The fact that those words fall from their lips so easily now makes Kent feel dizzy. How lucky he is to get to say that to someone, how lucky he is that the person he loves loves him back the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after so much poorly timed phone sex, it's time for some poorly timed real sex!  
> but fr they! are! in! love!  
> also jack was trying to be a good bro by not telling kent he knew that his boyfriend was whiskey but goofed it by being a ding dong who was just trying to help and tbh i love him for that  
> anyway i'm thinking like 5ish??? more chapters, i have a plan! (i have no plan)


	32. every mile adds up and leaves a mark on us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's rat city baby!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: writing through the night like always  
> the sun: hello, would you like to go to bed  
> me: yeah lol in a minute  
> the sun: cool, it's 9am btw  
> me: well gfuck  
> anyway
> 
> title is from west by sleeping at last

____

Whiskey’s attitude towards kegsters has been neutral at best. He avoids them when he can, but sometimes Tango and Ford get their way and he shows up.Whiskey didn’t drink much at the kegsters he’d been to before, he prefers to keep himself guarded in the hockey world, arms crossed, mind clear, there’s always someone watching,making sure he’s the right kind of guy to play hockey. That’s why he let himself get comfortable in the lax house, that’s why he drank their jungle juice more than he ever drank tub juice. He was less afraid about who’d see the way he acted without inhibition. Less people cared about who he drunkenly decided to kiss. 

“Whiskey, you have to come, you scored the third period goal,” Tango says.

They’ve been hanging out in his dorm room, Whiskey at his desk watching a couple videos that Coach Hall forwarded to the team, breakdowns of Brown’s skating style, game film. Tango was doing some readings from a textbook called “politics and postmodern modernist theory.” Whiskey will literally never ask him what class it’s for, like not even if you paid him. 

Whiskey has his feet up on the desk, half a granola bar in the hand he’s not using to rewind the video. 

“It was an empty netter, Nursey scored the actual game winner, he’ll be there. Force tequila shots on him”

“I’ve never forced tequila shots on anyone,” Tango says, indignant. 

“Right sorry, you just menacingly stand behind Ford while she does it.”

“You’re changing the subject,” Tango says, “You’ve gotta come.”

Whiskey sighs. 

“What do you have against kegsters anyway?” Tango asks. He’s got a bag of starbursts in front of him. He unwraps a yellow and a pink one and licks the yellow one, he smushes them together and pops the combination in his mouth. 

“I don’t party.”

“There’s an entire lacrosse house that begs to differ,” Tango says. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“Come on man,” Tango says, he turns over on his side, “Seriously, what is it?”

Whiskey blows air out of his nose, takes a bite of his granola bar. 

“Connor, you don’t have to act-”

“Except I do, Tony,” Whiskey snaps, “I’m gonna be acting the entire time.”

To Tango’s credit, he sits up, closes the book and stares Whiskey dead in the face. 

“What do you mean by that?”

His voice is so gentle, he’s always asking questions, but in these moments he’s different. In these moments he’s serious, less excitable, coaxing something out of his friend. 

Whiskey sighs, “It’s just… no one was watching me when I went to the lax parties,” he says. 

“We’re not judging you,” Tango says, voice still soft. 

“I know  _ you’re  _ not. And holy shit,” he says taking a minute, “Thanks for that, man… but there’s always someone who might be. There’s always been someone who might be. Because it’s hockey and I spent a long time being the kid from Arizona or the kid with the mom from Mexico… she didn’t teach me how to speak spanish because she didn’t want me to have n accent… that’s how much she wanted me to be  _ normal _ … or whatever everyone else thought that was supposed to be. And for a minute,” Whiskey says, “I was normal,” he exhales, “I was playing hockey in Minnesota, and I had a  _ girlfriend  _ and I loved her and she’s legit the kindest person in the world… and then I went and fucked it by being complicated.”

Tango looks at him, “Complicated?”

“Fucking bisexual!” Whiskey half shouts, “And I don’t get to be Jack Zimmermann either, anyone would have given him a chance no matter what, he got to  _ decide  _ to go to the most progressive front office in the NHL, I’m just some kid who has to convince them… and being in love with a literal NHL living legend isn’t exactly going to convince them I’m uncomplicated.”

He knows what they’’d all tell him, Kent would tell him he doesn’t owe anyone anything, that no one ever has to know. He knows that Rachel would hold his hand and tell him that she’d be his fake date to the NHL awards when he eventually needs one. He knows that Bitty would tell him how much it would mean to some little kid somewhere to look up and see an openly bisexual athlete, how much it could do for the culture in the NCAA if he came out and they won a championship.

Bitty gets letters from kids, sometimes he leaves them out where he knows Whiskey will find him. Thinking, in some misguided way that it will convince Whiskey to come out. The thing is, Whiskey still feels like one of those kids. Searching for a role model, waiting for things to get better. 

He doesn’t know what Tango’s going to say. 

And Tango just says, “Shit.”

Whiskey shrugs, wipes what he pretends is an eyelash out of the corner of his eye. He actually wants to get rid of the single tear that he’s shed in frustration. 

“Dude, I can’t know how you’re feeling,” Tango says, “But I can like… give you a hug,” Tango says, he looks like someone’s just broken his heart as he figures out that he can’t fix this for Whiskey, that there’s no fast way to make the world better overnight. 

In the perfect world that Tango would make, Whiskey gets to be with Kent and it doesn’t matter. Kent posts a picture of Whiskey lying on Instagram and people say it’s cute, Whiskey mentions his boyfriend in casual conversation, they hold hands in public but they don’t kiss because neither one of them likes doing that in front of people, not because they’re afraid. In a perfect world his mom makes Kent sleep in the guest room because that’s what mom’s do to their babies’ boyfriends. 

In this world though, Tango can offer Whiskey a hug. Whiskey’s frown breaks into a small smile and Tango takes that to mean yes and he gently pulls Whiskey in, arms wrapping around his shoulders, just holding him tight. 

“It fucking sucks,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Tango nods into his shoulder, “I’m sorry.”

“S’not your fault,” Whiskey says. 

“No, but I can still be sorry about it, because you’re my friend.”

“I just,” Whiskey pulls away and sits on the bed, knees pulled up against his chest, “I get that in the best case scenario I get to be out,” he says, “Like if the league was better or people cared less, but they don’t and when I’m around other hockey people, I can feel how much they care. Even if it’s not like… them specifically,” he says, “Like every time it just reminds me that if I got drunk and decided to make out with a dude… it’d be a big deal to them. It wasn’t at lax parties,” Whiskey says. 

Tango just nods. 

“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” Whiskey mutters. 

“It’s okay,” Tango says, “I didn’t get it. I still don’t, totally, but I’m closer.”

“I don’t know why everyone thinks you’re such an idiot.”

“People think I’m an idiot? Gasp!” Tango says, mock hurt. 

Whiskey chuckles. 

“So uh…” Tango says, after a moment of quiet, “the NHL legend you said you’re in love with… McDavid?”

“Fuck you,” Whiskey laughs, he picks up one of Tango’s starburst wrappers and throws it at him.

“Lemieux? I didn’t know you had a thing for older guys… oh wait!” Tango says, “Is it Shane Doan? Coyotes, right?” Tango’s giggling now. 

Whiskey springs forward, grabbing Tango by the arm and wrestling him off the bed. They both hit the ground with a thud and Tango grins, trying to twist out of Whiskey’s grip. They only stop screwing around when the girl that Whiskey shares a wall with bangs on it and tells them to shut up. 

They both laugh harder at this, finally settling, sitting on Whiskey’s floor. They look ahead, at the cinderblock wall. 

“Parson?” Tango says after another long, but not awkward, silence. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, simple, a little out of breath from trying to get Tango to stop trying to give him a wet willy like two seconds ago. 

“I’m happy for you.”

“Didn’t you agree with Bitty and Nursey when they were calling him a rat like last weekend.”

“He is a rat,” Tango says, “A rat who calls you every day and shows up to our games even when he’s exhausted from the playoffs and he treats you like you deserve to be treated,” Tango says, “It just so happens that he’s a piece of shit on the ice sometimes… but like, so’s Dex sometimes. Doesn’t mean I don’t love the guy, he’s our rat.”

Whiskey smiles, turning up the corner of his mouth a little, “Our rat,” he shakes his head lovingly. 

“Yeah, and if Parse was on a team I cheered for and not-” he pretends to gag, “The Las Vegas Aces,” he pretends to gag again, Whiskey laughs, but makes it clear that he thinks Tango’s a moron, “If he played for one of my teams, I’d love the way the guy plays. He’s annoying as hell. But I’m sure you love him for reasons unrelated to hockey.”

Whiskey just smiles, looking down at his hands because, yeah, he does. 

“Although, knowing you, you definitely have some kind of weird hockey boner like 80 per cent of the time.”

“Fuck you,” Whiskey punches him in the shoulder. 

“That’s not denial,” Tango tuts. 

“You’re the worst.”

They sit for a minute, Tango fiddles with his bag of starbursts,hands one to Whiskey, unwrapping it first so he won’t just put it back in the bag when Tango’s not looking. 

“Come to the kegster, please?” Tango asks. 

Whiskey sighs, he remembers Kent telling him to hang out with his team more, he remembers the promise of “graduate and I’ll go wherever you go,” and he figures if he’s going to be here for two more years, he might as well get to know his team. 

“Okay, sure, why not,” Whiskey says, “I was gonna watch Kent’s game first.”

“We can watch it at the Haus,” Tango offers. 

Whiskey shakes his head slightly, “I can just use my laptop.”

“Oh come one,” Tango says, “Dex is making dinner which means it’ll actually be good and not charcoal like when Nursey tried to make pizza and it stuck to the oven rack and we had to scrape it out.”

“I wasn’t there for that,” Whiskey says. 

“Be glad. The oven still smells kind of like burning cheese.”

“Okay, fine,” Whiskey says, “We’ll go, but if you call my boyfriend a rat, I’ll ignore you all night.”

“Then you better text your boyfriend and tell him not to act like a rat.”

“They’re playing the  _ Flyers  _ it’s rat city!”

“I don’t make the rules, Whisk.”

A few hours later, they walk across campus together. They make a slight detour so Tango can drop off his abnormal psychology homework. He says hello to a TA that Whiskey is pretty sure only teaches music classes but Tango seems oddly familiar with. They meet Ford at the edge of the quad after her rehearsal for a performance class. She’s wearing all black and her hair is pinned out of her face.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” She asks. 

“We’re headed to the Haus, gonna watch the Flyers game and eat whatever Dex decided to make.”

What Dex decided to make turns out to be Shepard’s pie. It’s actually really good and Whiskey lets himself have seconds while Tango tries to get the ESPN broadcast to work. It takes Dex and a couple VPNs for them to find a stream that works, but eventually they do it. 

“Okay so is there a closet Aces fan in this house I need to know about?” Dex says, hands on hips. 

“I like the Flyers,” Ford supplies quickly, Whiskey shoots her a look of thanks. 

“Where’s Bitty?” Tango asks. 

“Working on his Thesis, which I think just means reading old recipe books. He’ll be down when he gets bored,” Nursey says and flops down on the gross green couch next to Chowder. Whiskey sits in the arm chair with Ford perched on the arm, Tango’s on the ground leaning against his legs. Dex walks in and out of the room, occasionally looking at the TV. 

Seeing Kent in front of him on a TV screen, he thinks, will never not be shocking. He likes the way the camera hangs on him during the anthem, rocking back and forth on his skate blades, a look of determination sits on his furrowed brow. Whiskey wants to reach out and tell him that it’ll be okay even if he doesn’t win, that he knows he can win, but he doesn’t need to look so tense about it. 

Whiskey doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the puck drops and he inhales sharply. Nursey gives him a side-eye, but ultimately doesn’t say much. 

Bitty comes down the stairs in between periods. 

“Good lord, y’all,” he says, “Are we ever not watching hockey,” 

“Playoffs, Bitty!” Nursey says, “It’s the best entertainment for months.”

“I guess,” Bitty says, he catches sight of Kent, Whiskey sees him roll his eyes, “I’m baking, an no, you may not lick the spoons,” Bitty says as he walks into the kitchen, Nursey reaches up to thump him in the back as he walks past. 

“The Flyers?” Bitty asks, poking his head back out, “Y’all couldn’t have watched a different series?”

“This is the only one on tonight, Bits,” Nursey says. 

Bitty sighs. 

“If the Falcs had won their last game of the season against the Flyers, the Falcs would made it, I think he’s still bummed for Jack,” Nursey whispers across the couch. 

Whiskey nods. 

“That must suck,” Chowder says. 

Whiskey tunes out the conversation, trying to listen to Kent’s between periods interview. 

“Well you know, they were coming at us fast, some of the calls didn’t go our way but we knew this was going to be a physical battle from the start, so we can’t be afraid to get bodies in the way… y’know,” he hears Kent say. 

It’s a hockey answer, but there’s something about Kent’s sideways smirk that makes it seem like he’s saying more than he is. 

“Anything to say to the fans watching at home?” the interviewer asks. 

“We’re playing for you. We play for each other and our pride and our friends and our families, but most of all, we want to bring another cup parade to Vegas,” Kent looks into the camera. He and the reporter thank each other for their time. 

Whiskey decides then and there that he’ll be in Vegas for that cup parade no matter when it ends up happening. He was so caught up in listening to Kent that he didn’t hear Bitty walk back in the room. 

He’s holding a mixing bowl in one hand. 

“Parson’s real good at talking to the media,” Nursey says. 

“Just admit you have a bro crush on him,” Dex throws a cornchip from the bowl that is seemingly perpetually on the coffee table. 

“There is nothing bro about this crush,” Nursey drops his voice, “I am, objectively, straight,” he says, “But Kent Parson is  _ the guy, _ ”

“Nursey!” Bitty scolds. 

“Come on, Bits, you’ve got to admit… objectively.”

“I absolutely do not have to!” Bitty protests. 

“What’s your thing against Parson, anyway?” Dex asks. 

“I do not have a thing against Parson,” Bitty says. 

Whiskey knows that he probably does, and that it probably has something to do with Jack and that Kent calls it “ancient history” when he doesn’t want to talk about his feelings anymore. 

“I don’t love the way he plays,” Bitty shrugs, “But bless his heart anyway.”

Whiskey can recognize southern passive aggression, he gets up to find a glass of water before his face turns any redder. 

He’s filling his glass for the second time when Bitty re-enters the kitchen. 

“Whiskey!” Bitty says, “I know I said no licking the spoons, but do you want to try this filling, I’m not sure about it,” he says. 

“No thanks,” Whiskey says, “I’m sure it’s delicious.”

He sets the glass down with a thud and walks back into the living room. He tries not to notice Bitty’s hurt expression. He’ll say it a thousand times, but he doesn’t hate Bitty, he just doesn’t know what to say, ever and Bitty reads so much into things and he needs everyone to like him, and Whiskey’s not good at showing people that he likes them. Because he  _ does  _ like Bitty, as a captain and a liney, he’s a good hockey player, and he cares about the team, but Whiskey doesn’t know how to say that to him and he doesn’t know how to show it. So he just walks way. He also doesn’t like pie, like as a concept, there’s too much pastry for it to be anything other than dry no matter how much anyone tries. Bitty’s are better in most regards, but Whiskey still doesn’t like pie. 

The Aces are up 2-0 and Kent looks determined to keep it that way. He’s throwing harder hits than someone his size should, getting testier as the game goes on. Whiskey’s thankful when the second period ends, Kent might calm down in the locker room and avoid doing something dumb. People around him start getting ready for the party. But he stays there, glued to the TV, always on the lookout for Kent’s #90. It stays 2-0 for the rest of the third and the Aces pour onto the ice to celebrate. The camera focuses on Kent’s face, the beard that Whiskey wishes he would shave, but won’t. He’s grinning so wide, arms around Swoops and the rookie centre who plays on their line, he can hear them cheering, he spots Kelli sitting behind the bench and he wishes he was there, to hug him and scream with him, to share that feeling on the ice. He’s here, so all he can do is text three exclamation marks in a row followed by  _ Holy SHIT! That was great I’m glad you didn’t end up killing Giroux in that last scrum! I wish i could tell you this in person, okay, they’re forcing me to get drunk so I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.  _

He knows Kent won’t get it for at least an hour as he cleans up and does press, but Whiskey likes to leave texts the way a housewife might leave a sticky note in her husband’s lunchbox,a little surprise for later, let him know that he thinks about him when he’s gone. 

The Kegster goes like this, Bitty does a kegstand to kick it off, Nursey goes next, they try to get Whiskey to do one, but he passes the responsibility off to Tango, who graciously and drunkenly accepts. He lets Ford pull him on to the dance floor and he eats precisely half a slice of pie. There’s a fight on the porch that leads to two puddles of vomit just waiting for them once they have to clean up. Nursey gets on the roof, drunk as hell, celebrating his game winner. Dex says something along the lines of, “I hope he falls.” and then spends 20 minutes gently coaxing him down. Whiskey spends the whole time wishing he was standing beside Kent instead of some random dude who also happens to be a wall-leaner at parties kind of guy. He’s usually good about the long distance thing, if he misses him, he calls him, they plan a visit, they send pictures. He remembers that they’ll be together soon enough. But sometimes it just hits him that Kent’s not there and he really wishes he was. He sends Kent one snapchat, not wanting to blow his phone up with messages, it’s just a picture of his face, looking bored,  _ parties suck, wish you were here to make it less boring.  _ He feels like a baby about it, after all, he got to see Kent literally a day ago, but maybe that’s what makes the longing so fresh. 

When the lights are on and Bitty’s kicked everyone out, Whiskey’s sober. He stands on the porch holding the hose while Tango scrubs. Most of the vomit and all of the spilled beer comes off pretty quickly. Tango high fives him. 

He holds the hose, Tango’s in front of him, all carefree and sit, and Whiskey wishes he could be that, but the conversation from earlier pops into his head again. He’s  _ complicated _ .

He walks in, hears Louis mention something about someone’s car, doesn’t really care, he’s got a one track mind about getting to go back to his dorm room and mope about Kent. 

“Hey, Bitty,” he says.

Bitty turns around, “The porch is clean, so I’m heading out.”

“Oh! Thanks!” Bitty says. 

“It was a lot of hosing,” Whiskey says, attempt at a joke. 

“Well… It’s good to see you at a kegster!”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to…”

He looks down at Bitty, still feels small though. 

“I did want to say…” he tries to fit is mouth around the words, “You’ve kept stuff that happened  **my business** , to yourself and I…” He’d started the sentence fully intending to tell Bitty more than he does, but he chickens out halfway through. He doesn’t owe an explanation to Bitty, but, like it or not, Bitty gets at least some of what Whiskey’s going through. He wants to ask, “ _ how do you manage loving someone when they spend half their life flying further away from you?”  _ he doesn’t though. 

“I guess with Samwell in the news. With scouts at games. I appreciate it. You keeping my business to yourself,” Whiskey says, “Uh.” He fumbles, “Good game. See you around.”

“Good game, Whiskey,” Bitty says.

Whiskey pulls his hood up and walks out the front door, back to his dorm. He puts his earbuds in and walks.He doesn’t know if it’s the tiny amount of alcohol still in him or if he’s just finally fucking hit a breaking point, but he starts to cry. And it doesn’t help that spotify gives him one of those stupid Panic! At the Disco songs they play at Aces home games that reminds him of Kent. He just lets it go, the wind dries his tears against his face, and his hoodie obscures his identity well enough. He takes a detour, just walks a lap around the quad, lets the cold sink into his hands before he rounds the corner to his dorm building. 

“Holy shit,” he says when he sees him. 

Kent, terrible fucking beard included, is sitting on the bench outside of his building, he’s holding his phone, but quickly switches it off when he sees. Whiskey. He grabs Whiskey by the hand. 

“Are you okay? You didn’t answer your text.”

Whiskey pulls his phone out of his sweater pocket;  _ let me in?  _ Text from Kent was sent 20 minutes ago. 

“Sorry,” Whiskey says, “fuck I didn’t check my phone, I was just… it’s okay,” Whiskey says. 

Kent’s hand slides up to Whiskey’s forearm, “Baby,” he says. 

“No,” Whiskey wipes his face with his own sleeve,”You’re here… and why are you even here?” Whiskey demands. 

“I had some stuff to take care of,” Kent says, cryptic but not in a way that makes Whiskey particularly suspicious, “I went to the Haus first.”

“Oh, I had already left.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure if I’d catch you,” Kent says, “I talked to Bittle for a minute.”

“Oh, cool,” Whiskey says. 

“Hey,” Kent puts his thumb under Whiskey’s chin and forces him to look him in the face, “You still look bummed.”

“I uh..” Whiskey says, “Dunno, it’s just been a day, I guess,”he says. He doesn’t want to let Kent know that it’s his absence that really sent him over the edge, doesn’t want him to have that hanging over him, “you won,” Whiskey says, “I don’t wanna spoil that.”

“If I wanted to be celebrated, I’d be doing that,” Kent says, “I wanted to see you, can we go for a walk?” he asks. 

So Whiskey just nods. It’s not until they're walking, down past the lake that Kent slips his hand into Whiskey’s, safely out of sight, Whiskey feels okay with this. 

“So am I allowed to ask why you were crying or do you still need a minute,” Kent says. 

“Guess I was just thinking about how life isn’t fair,” Whiskey says. 

Kent squeezes his hand, “Yeah,” he says. 

“And how,” he swallows,”Like we’re just doing the best with what we’ve got, right?” Whiskey says. 

“How do you mean?”

“Like obviously I love you and I wish more people knew that, but it would be bad if everyone knew,so only few people know. And I  _ want  _ it to be better but realistically it’s not, y’know?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent squeezes his hand again, Whiskey takes this to mean yes. 

“And it’s the same when I miss you,” Whiskey says, “I hate it, but I know it’s better than not having you at all.”

“Oh, Connor,” Kent turns to him, he pulls him into what turns into a long and tearful embrace. 

Whiskey kisses his shoulder, because it’s close and it’s there, and he wants to feel something solid. 

Kent doesn’t call him Connor unless it’s something that matters. This feels like it matters. 

“I really don’t want to be a distraction for you, right now,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re not,” Kent says, “I promise,” and he holds Whiskey tighter. 

Whiskey laughs at himself, “I didn’t plan for you,” he sniffles. 

“Me neither,” Kent brushes a piece of Whiskey’s hair out of his face. 

Whiskey kisses him, right there on the sidewalk, he wants to feel Kent’s lips, soft and warm and so distinctly  _ Kent.  _

“Move in with me this summer,” Kent blurts. 

“What?” Whiskey says. 

“I uh… I was gonna wait to ask. Because Kelli says you shouldn’t ask before 6 months, but I really want to spend as much time with you as I can… and if you… We can figure it out,” Kent slips his hand back into Whiskey’s. 

And Whiskey just nods, “We’ll figure it out,” he repeats. 

He knows that whatever they figure out, whatever they tell his parents won’t be perfect. He’ll either have to lie or make them upset, but the world’s not perfect, there’s no third option, not right now. So he’ll have to pick the best one and try to make that one work. 

Kent spends the night even though he has to be on a plane in six hours. 

“If the Aces lose because you want to sleep in my twin bed, I will not be held responsible.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to sleep in your twin bed, it just happens to be the bed you sleep in, and if I have to sacrifice several inches of mattress to cuddle you, then that’s just how it is.”

Whiskey likes it when Kent attaches himself to Whiskey’s torso and doesn’t let go all night. He wraps his arms around Whiskey’s shoulders, tracing his fingers along his collarbones, they tangle their legs together. The alarm is set for earlier than Whiskey would like for it to be. But he’ll take what he can get. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are always nice. i stayed up until literally the sun rose writing this because i couldn't stop. we're here for the nuance! and the complicated feelings! things are not always perfect! but sometimes they are really good! and when the options are really good! and really bad! you should always try to pick really good!


	33. Still-there-Monday-morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a trophy in a box that has yet to be taken out, Samwell want to be the ones to do it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all: already know how this ends, know that Samwell wins the trophy  
> me: okay but what if i write several thousand words describing the game in more detail than anyone wants or needs. 
> 
> title is from Tiny Love by Mika

There’s sweat pooling in Whiskey’s palms. His mouth is dry as he holds his stick in his hands. He’s looking down at the floor in the middle of the away team dressing room, if he thinks hard enough, he can see Samwell’s there. He doesn’t step on the area where it would be. The rest of the team is similarly, uncommonly quiet. Ford’s standing by the door, she pulls at the bottom of her SMH jacket, seeming to wish she could sink into it. 

It’s not quite game time, there’s still an hour and a half til puck drop, a little less until warmups and not everyone’s shown up yet. Nursey and Dex, as usual won’t show up until the last minute. Dex says he hates being late, but he always walks in behind Nursey mumbling something about how his D partner made him late because he always forgets the key in their hotel room. They spent last night at a hotel near Brown, the expense was shrugged off by the athletic department when they thought of a potential national championship. No one wanted to spare any expense. Some guys stay at thehotel for longer than others.

Tango, Ollie and Wicks went out into the hallway to kick soccer ball around, the three of them were practically vibrating with nervous energy. Louis put away his speaker, instead the headphones around his neck play his music quietly. Hops and Bully were by the bench last Whiskey heard.

Bitty’s MIA though, which is… weird for Bitty. He’s always bouncing around the rink before a game, from room to room, talking to everybody before they hit the ice. 

Whiskey tries not to think about it too much, but it’s something small that throws him off. Everything feels off, everything feels different. 

Whiskey stands next to Ford, trying to find some way to say something, he feels like if he doesn’t he’ll be doomed to nervous silence already.

She’s biting at the skin around her nails, hands shaking just a little bit. 

Whiskey puts his hand on her shoulder. 

“We’re gonna play our game, there’s nothing else we can do,” he says. 

“I know,” she answers, “It’s just the waiting. Knowing what we’re about to be up against, Brown’s so…”

“Filled with absolute dickheads?” Whiskey says. 

She manages a dry laugh, “Yeah.”

And then, looking around, to make sure no one else is in earshot, “you should call him.”

Whiskey just nods, solemnly, silently. Kent. 

“I will,” he says. 

He’s in Vegas right now, probably getting ready for his own game later tonight. Whiskey wonders if his boyfriend’s palms are as sweaty as his own. He knows that Kent would have done anything to be there, that he’d spend hours staring at google maps willing planes to fly faster. He had suggested faking an injury, just for one game, but Whiskey wouldn’t ask him to do that, couldn’t ask him to do that, and he thinks Kent knew when he suggested it. 

It sucks. At the core, it just really really really, fucking sucks. He tries not to think about it as he emerges into an unfamiliar rink. The maroon paint of the wall confronts him, lets him know he’s in unfriendly territory, and not just because of the championship, though that’s certainly part of it. When Whiskey thinks back over the season, it’s Brown that gave Bitty the most shit, it was Brown that finished their checks. 

So he calls Kent, he doesn’t know where he’s going, so he walks out to the bench, he paces the rows of seats in the stands. In a few hours they’ll be filled with fans, making the trip from Samwell. Jack will be in the stands, Bitty’s going to be able to kiss his boyfriend after the game, no matter how it goes. And Whiskey feels a pang of jealousy twist at his stomach.

“Hey,” Kent’s voice comes clear through Whiskey’s headphones. The NCAA final starts at 6, it’s 4:30 now, which means that it’s around 1:30 in Las Vegas. 

“Am I bothering you?” Whiskey asks. 

“Never,” Kent says, “I’m just finishing lunch.

Whiskey reaches the top stair and walks the cement pathway at the top, hand dragging against the cool metal guard rail. He sits down, in the corner, he’s by a staircase but no one would be able to see him unless they came looking. 

“I’m at the rink,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m sorry I’m not,” Kent says. 

“Don’t,” Whiskey answers, “You can’t change it. We had to know when we started doing this that we wouldn’t be there for each other all the time, not in person. It’s not your fault.”

He hears Kent sigh, “Yeah.”

“I’m scared,” Whiskey admits, voice small. Not nervous, not apprehensive, properly, completely,  _ scared.  _ Every bit of him feels like it’s twisting. It’s not really the game that makes him feel like he’s going to throw up his dinner, it’s the waiting, it’s the fact that he can’t just get it over with. 

“I think that’s reasonable,” Kent says. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, “It’s a huge thing, you’ve been working yourself raw all year.”

“What did you do after you won the cup?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent pauses, takes a short breath, “We got really drunk first, partied most of the night, and then everybody went home before the sun came up and then I cried,” Kent says bluntly, “It was just a lot,” he adds, “Like I was so happy all night before that and then I sat down and had time to think, and I was alone in my apartment and I realized that it was done,” he says.

And Whiskey imagines a 20 year old Kent sitting alone at his dining room table, Stanley Cup Champion hat on his head, hair messed up. A Stanley Cup champion, and his heart aches for that boy. Whiskey didn’t know that boy, he forgets, sometimes, how much of Kent he didn’t know, how Kent, at 26 has been through so much already. 

“You’re gonna feel that whether you win or not,” Kent says, matter of fact, “Because you’ve been working all year towards a goal and whether you achieve it or not, it’s not gonna be there anymore. You’ll feel lost and confused.”

For some reason, knowing what’s coming makes Whiskey feel a lot better. He swallows a lump in his throat. 

“I wish I was there,” Kent says, “I wish I was there more than anything. Because I know you can do it and I want to see you do it.”

“Well I want to see you win the first round, so…” Whiskey smirks.

“I’m gonna watch,” Kent says, “And I’ll be cheering for you, Swoops and Kelli too,” Kent sounds choked up. 

“And Kit?” 

“And Kit,” Kent laughs. 

“So,” Whiskey says, “What’d you have for lunch?” 

And that slices through the tension, the sadness that both of them feels because they can’t be next to each other in this moment. 

“Sandwich. Ham,” Kent says, “Kelli’s bringing a bottle of wine that me and Swoops won’t be able to touch because she’s actually the worst,” Whiskey can hear Kent’s smile. 

“Sounds like her,” Whiskey smiles and hopes Kent can hear it. 

“I’ll call you after my game, okay?” Kent asks. 

“Yes,” Whiskey says, “Yeah.”

“Okay, you’re okay, right? It’s just the normal kind of nervous?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

They’d talked about it one night, when they’d talked into the early hours of the morning. And Whiskey could tell that Kent was so worried about everyone’s feelings because of Jack, because of what had happened, and so they came up with “normal nervous.” Because Whiskey could feel the difference. There was the nervous he could walk through, the kind that could be quieted by leaving the room for a minute, taping a stick and remembering how to breathe. It helped to talk to Kent about that kind of nervous, because he could forget about it, or Kent could point out something he wasn’t seeing, “if you fail this quiz it’s not a big deal because you aced the midterm.” Kent’s trying to learn that he doesn’t have to worry all day about this kind of nervous. 

Then there was the insatiable nervous. The kind that didn’t go away, the kind that his therapist needed to know about. It was the kind that forced him to take the ice for hours after regular practice, the kind that told him, constantly, that he was going to fuck it all up. The kind that left him sitting on the floor trying to collect his breath, the panic, everything he tries to forget about comes crashing back in those moments. And Kent helps them too, sits on the phone and counts to ten with Whiskey, breathes with him, tells him that he loves him and slowly, Whiskey remembers how to breathe, the worst of it subsides and Kent makes him take care of himself, asks him when his next appointment is. 

Sometimes the normal nervous turns into the insatiable nervous, but not as often anymore and not right now. Whiskey still doesn’t know where the line is, when hockey becomes too much, when the normal nerves become the bad ones. But he’s trying

“Okay, good,” Kent says. 

“What about you?” Whiskey asks. 

“Me?”

“You’re in the Stanley Cup plyoffs, how are you feeling?”

Kent fakes a yawn, “It’s a little bit old habit at this point.”

Whiskey knows Kent wouldn’t be able to make a joke if the Aces didn’t have the series lead. 

“You’re such an asshole sometimes,” Whiskey says, they both know he doesn’t mean it. 

“I’m a little nervous,” Kent admits, “There’s a lot of young guys out there. Makes me feel old. They say 24-29 is the prime, so…hopefully they’re right,” Kent says. 

“Age is just a number,” Whiskey says the only helpful thing he can think of. 

“My knees beg to differ.”

Whiskey laughs, “Good luck,” he says. 

“Good luck,” Kent answers, “You won’t need it though.”

“I love you so much,” the words fall from Whiskey’s mouth with ease.

“I love you too.”

Whiskey keeps smiling when Kent hangs up. He plays an album through his headphones, something Kent sent him because Kelli had written an album review and Kent thought it would be something Whiskey would like. 

He knows that if he goes and hangs out in his stall, he’ll start overthinking it again, so he walks back into the visitor’s locker room and picks up two of his own sticks and a roll of white tape and some wax. He holds them up to Ford and wordlessly jerks his head towards the door to let her know he’s heading out again. She nods and makes a not on one of the charts she has in her notebook. He looks around. Still no Bitty.

He looks for a door, somewhere with fresh air. He finds a fire door, pushes it open and finds himself at the top of a cement staircase, there’s a railing, it’s only five or six feet to the ground. It occurs to him that this is the kind of place coaches probably came to smoke back when that was a thing coaches did. The second thing that occurs to him, is that Bitty’s sitting in front of him, perched on top of the railing, just looking up. 

“Connor,” Bitty says, turning his head in surprise. 

“Sorry,” Whiskey says, “I can leave you alone if you want… I was just gonna, well,” he holds up his sticks in explanation. 

“No, no, I was just thinking, you can stay,” Bitty says. 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “Uh, yeah,” he perches on top of the handrail next to Bitty. It looks like it was built more recently than the rest of the building, really just a handful of two by fours nailed together, probably to adhere to new safety codes or something like that. Whiskey starts to tape his first stick. 

“There’s a lot to think about,” Whiskey says, more to the air than to Bitty. 

“There sure is,” Bitty says. 

And then neither one of them says another word. The gentle rip of the tape fills the air. It’s a little after sundown but the parking lot lights are on. 

_ Do you know what a championship would mean?  _

Whiskey knows. It means something different to him than it does to Bitty. Bitty wants to win for a cause, to prove that his locker room is just the same as anyone else’s. That it’s possible for hockey to really and truly be for everyone. 

It occurs to Whiskey, in this moment, how strange it is that he’s on the team fighting for this. Not because he doesn’t want to fight for it, but because he thinks it should have happened by now. That someone else should have done it. How are the hockey players that are changing the culture, are the ones on  _ his own team _ . 

Whiskey just wants to win. 

“Connor,” Bitty starts, “Whiskey,” he says his nickname, “You’re a good player,.”

“I’ve got good lineys,” Whiskey holds his stick up in front of him, the tape job is fine. He’s found it doesn’t make much of a difference how he tapes his stick but he still does it the same way every time. 

“We better suit up,” Bitty says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey nods. 

Tango’s drinking red bull in the locker room and that doesn’t surprise Whiskey even a little bit. Ford’s standing with one of the trainers going over the equipment that they’re hauling to the bench. Nursey and Dex have arrived, Dex is already dressed sitting in his stall, Nursey’s next to him, he hasn’t put his jersey on yet but he’s otherwise ready to go. He sees Ollie and Wicks standing next to each other, a fistbump reassures Whiskey that everything’s norrmal. They do that before every game. This is like every game.

Whiskey can breathe again. 

Hall and Murray walk into the room to read the starting lineup. 

“Starting at centre, Whisk, O’Meara on the left, Bittle on the right,” he reads off a clipboard, “Nurse, Poindexter on D, and closing the door for us as always, Chow,” He says. 

The room claps. 

“Alright boys,” Hall says, “I’m not a speech guy, but it’s the championships so bear with me, I’ve gotta say something,” he says, “I know this night means a lot to all of you, whether you’re seniors or this is your first playoff run. What you’ve managed to accomplish already is phenomenal and you should be proud no matter what happens,” Hall continues, “That being said, you’ve gotta be on your A games tonight. I know you all want to win and if you want to win then you have to leave it all out there on the ice. There’s no next game,” he says. 

Whiskey remembers what Kent said. No next game. No training for tomorrow. This is it. He clenches his jaw, looks ahead at the team around them. 

“Let’s do it, boys,” Hall claps his hands. 

It all disappears when Whiskey hits the ice. The vaguely chemical smell of the ice hits his nose. He feels the ice under his skates. The warmup music blasts through the building, the Brown players are on their own end of the ice. The sound of pucks hitting carbon fibre blades makes him feel at ease. He knows what to do here. He knows what he’s going to have to do here. 

He looks up into the crowd. He sees Jack and Shitty and a couple Falcs and for a minute he’s jealous that Bitty gets to have that. But he can’t let that get in his head. He thinks about Kent and Kelli and Swoops in Kent’s condo in Vegas and he smiles. 

In less than 30 minutes, Whiskey’s going to play the biggest game of his career. 

But for now, he’s on the ice, stretching his hips next to Tango. They both stand up at the same time, Tango hits him in the back of the shin pads with his stick, Whiskey hits Tango in the back of the shin pads with his. They all take shots on Chowder, he stands next to Tango while they rotate through shooters. Ford is standing on the bench. Five minutes until warmups are over, they stand next to her. Ford takes a picture for the SMH twitter. This is it, Whiskey thinks. This is the game. 

It’s not the same for them as it is for Bitty though. Not for Ollie and Wicks. Whiskey’s going to have other playoffs, other cracks at a championship, but for them, it’s done. 

Warmups end, Hall doesn’t come into the locker room until five minutes before puck drop, and it’s only to give them the five minute warning. 

Dex looks around at the team in the room. Whiskey feels his eyes on him. 

“Hey,” Dex says standing up, “I know Bitty’s not gonna say it himself because he’s too humble, but we win this game tonight for the seniors,” he says, his eyes are fired up, fists clutched at his side, “We’re all going to have a last game one day and I think I speak for all of us when I say we’ll want our teammates to give 110 per cent when that day comes. So that’s what we should expect out of ourselves.”

Nursey is the first one to start clapping and then the whole team joins in and they’re jumping around the room and they’re chanting and Whiskey hopes Brown can hear them in the dressing room beside them because they’re not going down without a fight and they’re still chanting in the tunnel, knocking their shoulders against one another, bumping chests. He sees Hall grinning on the bench. 

Whiskey hits the ice running when the door opens. 

The music is pumping and he can feel the energy of every single Samwell fan running through him like a lightning bolt. He can feel Kent sitting on the edge of his couch thousands of miles away. 

The puck drops and he misses the faceoff. 

“Motherfucker!” he curses loudly at himself. 

He scrambles back into position, Ollie goes to the boards to regain possession. The Brown player is shoving but the puck is tangled up in their feet, Whiskey sprints to beat the Brown defender and collect the puck. Ollie shoves the other player off of him as they streak up the ice. Two of the defenders close in on Whiskey, he passes back to Bitty, Bitty passes it back to Dex who sets Nursey up at the point and then throws it back to Whiskey. The Brown defender gets his stick in the way and they start to breakout, Whiskey rushes for a line change. Tango goes out next, Whiskey watches him as he tries to catch his breath. 

“They’re getting hammered out there!” Ollie shouts to an official, Wicks took a hit in open ice that sent him off his feet.

“Knocked the wind out of him, he’ll be okay,” Whiskey says. 

That doesn’t stop Ollie from standing up and making sure. Hall calls for Wicks to come off since he got hit close to the bench, he sends Bully on in his place. 

Whiskey gets hit three times in the first period. The first time, he gets crunched behind the net, trying to recover a puck. The second time, a defender comes straight at him while he’s on an odd man rush and takes him off his feet. He’ll feel the bruise in the morning, but for now, he’s only thinking about one thing. A trophy, that as of right now, has yet to be taken out of its box. Whiskey wants to be the one to take it out of it’s box. The next time he falls it’s because he’s tripped, the bruise on his elbow feels a little better knowing he got a power play in exchange for it. 

Brown scores first. 

“We can still do this,” Bitty says in the locker room, “We’ve come back from worse. Chowder, you couldn’t have done any better on that,” Bitty turns to the goalie, reassuring him, “you were screened in front and the shot was so hard anyway.”

“I’ll stop the next one,” Chowder says through gritted teeth. 

Because as hard as the hits are for everyone else, they’re twice as hard for Bitty, and they come with taunts. Assholes don’t deserve championships. They’re all thinking it as they it the ice for the second. 

Brown scores again. The giant forward who’d been giving Bitty a hard time in the first rushes Chowder, he nearly bowls him over as the puck goes into the net. But the referee’s pointing to the net. 

“What!” Dex is screaming. 

Everyone on the ice is expressing their discontent. 

“Are you just gonna let them get away with murder?” Dex shouts like he believes the entire world has come to conspire against Samwell at this very second. Regardless, the goal counts.

Tango, who is always smiling on the bench, wears a scowl as Whiskey passes him for a line change. He’s not happy either. 

_ They’re letting the boys play their game  _ he imagines the play by play announcer saying. He wonders which part of the game murder falls under, because Tango looks hellbent on killing someone.

Whiskey feels the hit from the bench, Tango separates a D man clean from the puck, Louis collects it and skates through the neutral zone, he passes to Bully. Bully pulls it back to his backhand and slides it back to Tango, Tango takes the hardest slapshot Whiskey has ever seen in his life. The shaft of his stick shatters on impact and the Brown players scramble. Whiskey turns to ask someone to pass him one of Tango’s sticks but Ford’s acted before he could even think and she’s leaning over the boards as the rush comes back into the neutral zone. The Brown players pass the puck up the ice, Tango grabs his stick on his way to defend. But Bully’s recovered the puck by then, so Tango’s standing in the neutral zone screaming for the pass. It hits his tape and he explodes up the ice. He fakes the goalie out and shoots, this time, his slapshot hits the twine at the back of the net and Samwell screams. Tango’s hollering as he skates past the bench. He ambushes Ford when he gets back to the bench, smothering her in a hug. 

“They should put you on the scoresheet for that one!” He’s shouting. 

“We can tie it up here boys!” Hall screams in the loud booming voice that every hockey coach has perfected. 

Whiskey nods at Bitty as they jump over the boards together, A pass from Nursey who stands in Samwell’s end hits Whiskey in the neutral zone. Whiskey sees #82 coming before he feels the hit. He’s crushed against the bench. It’s not comfortable, but the puck’s still on his stick, so he kicks it out for Dex. 

“Fuck you!” he hears someone on the bench yell. There’s a distinct possibility it’s Ford, but before he can find out, he’s back in on the action, he covers for the defense so Dex can pinch up. Nursey’s pushing in front of the net trying to clear room and Dex skates around the back of the net. In one smooth movement, he wraps his stick around and jams the puck under the goalie’s pads. 

“Eat up boys!” Dex shouts as he cellies in the corner. 

They go back to the room riding on excitement and anger. 

“We’re gonna win,” Tango says, “We have to. We’re the good guys.”

That gets a laugh out of everyone. But they all know it’s true. 

“Let’s do it,” Bitty says through gritted teeth. 

They chug gatorade and devour protein bars in the 20 minutes until they have to be back on the ice. 

Whiskey wants to punch something when Brown scores their third goal. 3-2. 

“You tied it once, you can do it again,” Hall shouts. 

A chorus of “Yes coach,” sounds over the bench. 

He can feel the bruises forming, he can feel the burn of lactic acid in his thighs but there’s nothing that would keep him off the ice right now. 

Whiskey screams his lungs hoarse on the bench when Hops makes it 3-3 by deflecting Louis’ shot into the back of the net. 

Ollie switches out for Bully halfway through the third after he takes a fall and twists his wrist.. 

“Shorten the bench coach, I’m not gonna be helpful out there,” Whiskey hears him pant. 

Hall listens. 

Whiskey lines up to take a faceoff in Brown’s end. The player shoves him hard after the puck drops but Whiskey manages to send the puck skipping towards Bitty. 

“Bully!” He hears Bitty shout. 

Whiskey’s still on the ice when Bitty gets knocked down. It’s a bone shattering hit right to the head and Bitty just crumples. Down, he’s on his hands and knees and no one blows the whistle. 

“Where the fuck is the call!” Dex is shouting. Whiskey gets to his knees, tries to chase down the puck because he knows that Bitty will yell at him for checking on him rather than chasing the play when he gets up.

And then he sees Bitty streaking past him, it happens so quickly. #82. Cole. Whiskey sees the maroon of his jersey near the Samwell bench and seconds later, he sees Bitty flying into him, elbow up, ready to lay a hit. And Cole falls into the Samwell bench, and the official’s blowing the whistle and Dex is telling him to go fuck himself as they surround the bench. 

He can hear the crowd gasp. A chorus of “holy shit,” “what the fuck?” “Bitty?” rings out from the bench. The trainers rush onto the bench and take both players back to the dressing rooms. Bitty needs to lean on Ford as she helps them back. 

“Tangredi, you’re on the first line,” Hall says.

“You wanna call something now, huh ref?” Dex shouts. 

The referees are standing at centre ice deciding what to do. 

“Calm down Poindexter, you’re gonna get an unsportsmanlike,” Murray hits him in the back of the helmet.

“If they wanna know what an unsportsmanlike really sounds like maybe they should pay attention to the absolute bullshit they’ve been saying to our captain all night!” Dex shouts himself hoarse so that the officials can hear him, “We’re gonna win anyway!” Dex screams. 

And the bench rallies around him. 

“For Bitty,” Nursey says. 

“For Bitty, and for all of us. For whatever the fuck this trophy means to you personally. Just fucking win,” Dex says. 

The officials decide on an interference penalty for Bitty. It cancels out, not because of anything Cole did, no, that would be too simple, they decide to call one of the players who shoved Hops down in the ensuing chaos for roughing. 

It’s Tango on his wing now. He looks up at the scoreboard. 3-3. There’s only one way to change that. He shoves the other centre once the puck drops, kicks the puck out for Tango. He can feel Dex’s rage burning a hole in the ice, barely contained. 

Tango spins, passes to Dex. 

Kent Parson is sitting on the edge of his couch in Las Vegas. The sun hasn’t set over the desert yet. The NCAA finals are on ESPN. Swoops is sitting beside him, Kelli on the other side. They’d both reached for one of his hands when Whiskey’d been taken off his feet in the first. They hadn’t let go since. Kelli has her head resting on Kent’s shoulder as she looks ahead at the flat screen. Swoops is holding his hand firmly, staring ahead. And Kent can’t take his eyes off of any of it. 

The hits, the goals. The way Whiskey skates like he refuses to leave anything unfinished. And the Bittle gets hit, and he hears Kelli gasp and she squeezes his hand even tighter. And Whiskey’s still on his knees and Kent is holding his breath. 

A game like this means something. It means something when the first openly gay NCAA hockey captain makes it to the finals and it means something when the other team keeps knocking him down. It means something when his own team starts screaming at the referees. 

“Are they not gonna call that,” Swoops says, outraged. 

“They won’t call anything in the last ten minutes,” Kent says. 

And then Bittle’s back on his feet, and Kent expects him to skate over to the bench and disappear into the dressing room for the rest of the game. But he’s skating, and fast, the play by play announcers sound surprised. He’s not making a play, Kent quickly realizes as he leaps, he leaves both of his feet and sends both himself and the player who’d knocked him down into the bench. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Kelli whispers next to him. 

Kent’s eyes are wide. The trainers are running to get both players out of the bench. Bittle’s head is down, he can’t see his face. And Kent sees Connor. He’s standing on the ice. The redheaded one is still screaming, and Kent thinks he has every right to. He wonders what it’s like to be in that building, all the air sucked out. He can feel it from here, holding his breath as the referees chatter at centre ice. 

And then he watches his boyfriend take the faceoff. And his heart twists again. They’d already hurt Bittle, and Whiskey was… Kent tries not to think too hard about the implications. 

Kelli’s squeezing his hand, more for her benefit than his now, the bottle of wine long since finished. Tonight’s game is the farthest thing from his mind. He watches the next shifts with his heart pounding harder than it did riding the barf bike at the draft combine. 

And the redhead who kept shouting sets up the play at the point, and Whiskey’s streaking past the net and the redhead times his pass and Whiskey hits on his the backhand and the clock hits 2 minutes until the end of the game and the mic catches everyone in the arena erupting into cheers and Kent jumps into the air and screams. 

“Yes! Holy Shit! Oh My God YES!” He’s shouting, he holds his hands over his mouth, he stays standing for the next two minutes. 

Connor Whisk is on the ice in the last thirty seconds of the game. Brown pulls their goalie. 

Win the face off, win the game, he thinks to himself. Win the face off win the game. Win the game… win. Win. Prove to his dad that the NCAA was just as good as the draft, prove to #82 that teams with gay dudes win championships. Prove to Rachel that all those weekends she spent in Minnesota meant something.

Prove to himself that he deserves this. 

Whiskey wins the faceoff. 

Kent Parson is screaming. The clock counts down. There are two skaters coming at Whiskey, desperation in their strides, trying to find the puck, but Whiskey passes to Tango and the skaters converge on him, and then the redhead is open and he passes to him and Whiskey’s standing in the neutral zone and the redhead passes to him and he lets a slapshot rip and the puck hits the back of the net and the buzzer sounds and gloves are flying in the air. 

“And Samwell are your NCAA champions this year,” the play by play announcer calls. 

And Kent’s pumping his hands in the air like Whiskey can hear him on another coast. And Swoops is cheering with him, he hugs him. Doesn’t notice Kelli filming him at first but then he smiles at the camera and there’s a tear in his eye because he’s so proud. 

He looks at the screen, sticks scattered around the ice, gloves and helmets strewn off and Bittle’s rushing back onto the ice, screaming along with the rest of them. He sees Whiskey, relaxed and loose as his friends surround him. Ford runs out onto the ice, slipping on her flats until Tango picks her up and skates her around the rink on his back. 

And then the trophy comes out and they hand it to Bittle first, he skates a lap with it before kissing Jack, who’s made his way down to the ice, and Bittle hands it off to Whiskey. And Kent smiles at that. Feels like that means something. 

And Whiskey’s holding the trophy above his head and laughing as he crashes into Tango and Ford, and Ford holds the trophy while Tango skates around the ice on his back. 

A toothless Bittle says something to an interviewer about “playing for each other,” he looks dazed if Kent’s being honest. 

And then they go to Whiskey, “how does it feel to have the game winner.”

And Whiskey’s breathing hard and sweating, “Great,” is all he says, out of breath. 

“That’s your boy,” Swoops claps him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

“I know a lot of people are going to say this was a win for something bigger,” the interviewer continues, “Would you say that.”

“The trophy means something different to every person on our team,” Whiskey says, his breathing still labored, “The win can mean something different to every person in this room, but right now, we’re just happy we won the fucking thing,” Whiskey curses, obvously without realizing it, but before anyone has a chance to point it out, Tango and Ford are careening into him screaming the lyrics to “we are the champions,” he stumbles off balance and the interviewer laughs as the camera refocuses on them. 

“Fuck YEAH SAMWELL,” someone shouts. 

He sees Jack spinning Bitty around, holding him in his arms.

He wants that, he thinks, to be with Whiskey. But this isn’t the only time Whiskey’s going to win like this. It’s not the only game winner he has in him. He sees Whiskey skating around the ice with his friends and he grins, tears still streaking down his cheeks. He’ll be there for the next one. 

Whiskey’s phone light’s up in his bag with a text from an unknown number. 

**It’s Kelli**

She sends a video attachment

**He’s in LOVE in love with you, you know.**

Whiskey doesn’t watch it until a few hours later when he cries on the bus over it. Kent, he was celebrating at the same time they were. He sees the joy in Kent’s eyes and hears the whoops of excitement. He realizes that he wouldn’t feel right, with Kent rushing onto the ice and kissing him like Jack and Bitty did. They’re not those kind of people, but this, this feels like them. Small. There. The kind of love that just says, “I’m always paying attention,” or “I’m here even if I’m really not.” On Monday, Whiskey won't have hockey practice. He'll have to find a new thing to push for. Kent will be there on Monday morning though, wherever he is. A phone call away, an instant answer as long as he's not literally on the ice. He looks at the video again. Kent's crying too. The bus has wifi. He turns on an NHL stream and tunes into the second period of Kent's game.

**Whiskey:** **I know :)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That shit LONG
> 
> anyway it's me, ya girl- writing too much sports action tbh  
> but oh well, it was fun lmao.  
> It took me a while to decide whether Kent should be at the game or not and I decided that it'd fit more with the whole theme and vibe I'm going for here. They're really just doing the best they can with what they have and that's really good too.  
> Also I'm thinking there's not many more chapters of this specific fic but I want to turn this into a series of Whiskey/Kent stuff, Idk how far it will go yet but I definitely want to write a bit about Whiskey moving in with Kent at the very least.  
> Anyway! thanks for reading y'all are awesome! Comments are always appreciated!


	34. I'd rather be causing the chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to fuckin party!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from home by gabrielle aplin

Somebody had champagne in the dressing room, a good amount of it got sprayed in Whiskey’s general direction so he opts to head to his dorm and wash off before he walks over to the Haus for the victorykegster. There’s a small crowd of dedicated fans and a couple Swallow reporters waiting by Faber when the bus pulls into the parking lot. 

“Holy shit,” Tango mutters, his face is glued to the window. Bitty holds the trophy high above his head as he jumps down the stairs of the bus. 

The party starts right there in the parking lot, campus security hangs back, rolling their eyes, smirks on their faces. Eventually Murray and Hall tell them to move the party inside and Whiskey slips aways and heads toward the dorms. Ford jogs after him. 

“Mind if I walk with you?” She asks. 

Whiskey’s still smiling, that feeling, ripping a shot, having it go hit the back of the net, it’s still with him. It helps that Kent won his game too. They pulled into Faber just as the third was ending. 

They walk in silence before Ford finally says, “We did it,” in a breathy voice like she can’t quite believe it just happened. 

Whiskey nods, “Holy shit.”

And then they hear footsteps running towards them and Tango’s jumping on Whiskey’s back. Whiskey braces, tenses his muscles and then holds Tango up as he whoops. Someone else whoops back from a dorm window. 

“Can I use your bathroom?” He asks Ford, “Apparently the tub juice has been brewing since dawn.”

Ford smiles, “Yeah, why not. I’m just gonna drop my stuff off and then head over to the Haus.”

“Me too,” Whiskey says, “I’m still a little… sticky,” he says, “I might rinse off in the sink.”

“D’you want us to wait?” Ford asks. 

Whiskey thinks about saying no, but he nods instead. He’s proud of himself.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Whiskey says. 

So they walk up the stairs together. Tango jumps off of Whiskey’s back and picks Ford up bridal style and bounds up the stairs she shrieks. 

“The Manager of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team and only reason I scored tonight will never walk up another stair again!” He proclaims. 

“You are fucking insane Tangredi!” She shrieks. 

“No, I’m fucking PUMPED.”

“Dudes, it’s quiet hours,” Whiskey says. It’s 11 p.m. and Whiskey’d rather not deal with a bitter RA tonight. 

“FUCK QUIET HOURS WE’RE CHAMPIONS!” Ford shouts as they unlock the door to her floor. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes but grins anyway and takes the steps up to his own floor two at a time. He closes the door behind him. He knows if he takes too long to think about anything he’ll start dwelling, and he  _ really  _ wants to celebrate with his time. It occurs to him that the Connor from the beginning of the year probably would have run from the kegster. He likes this Connor better. He takes off his team issued undershirt and throws on a navy blue polo shirt and a pair of beige khakis. He’s well aware that he dresses like the most boring white dude in the world, but the NHL likes boring white dudes, so he’s okay with dressing up like one. He knows… thinks… is generally paranoid about the fact… that someone tonight will probably take a picture tonight and in five years when he’s about to sign his second contract, they’ll throw it on twitter. He’s 21 and already trying to get ahead of the narrative. It occurs to him how fucked up that is as he’s pulling his red SMH hoodie over his shirt. 

He checks his phone for the first time since charging it on the bus. 

**KP:** **i don’t need you to answer this right away, i know you have partying to do and I’m about to get on the ice and I won’t be able to text you back until later anyway but I want to say this. I love you. And I am so insanely proud of you. I know Kelli sent you that video and I want you to know that i watched the entire thing, like swoops couldn’t get me to leave the couch even during the intermission. And i love you all the time but i especially love you when you’re playing hockey because 1) you’re hot 2) you’re ass 3) you look like you’re so genuinely comfortable on the ice and i really like seeing you like that 4) you do a very cute thing with your nose when you score goals, i don’t know if you know that but please never stop.**

 **KP:** **I don’t mean to send you an essay but like… you scored the game winner!!!! And an empty netter and you’re my fucking boyfriend and i love you so much**

 **KP:** **Kit also says hello.**

Whiskey opens the photo attachment, Kit, looking obviously disgruntled, is sitting on Kent’s glass coffee table wearing a red SMH baseball cap. Whiskey recognizes it as one of his own. He’d been wondering where it had gone.

**KP:** **anyway, I mean it when I say you should party until you pass out. But I’ll be up if you want to call me later.**

Whiskey smiles to himself. He knows Kent’s in a media scrum right now, that he won’t check his phone for at least an hour, he knows that when Kent sent the text, he knew Whiskey would be busy too. But they still send the texts. And Whiskey really really loves that. 

**Whiskey:** **we both won tonight, I think you should give Kit an extra treat from me**

 **Whiskey:** **i love you so much. I can’t wait until I get to see you.**

He picks up his phone, his wallet and his keys and heads out. Tango and Ford are standing at the end of the hallway. Ford has a twisted tea in her hand and she’s already drinking it. 

“You’re getting sloshed tonight, aren’t you?” Whiskey asks Ford. 

“No way, buddy,” Tango says, “You are the one who’s gonna get sloshed, the first kegstand is yours AND you of all people deserves to celebrate this. We’ll just get wasted, you can get alcohol poisoning and we’ll babysit.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“Come on man, we’ll drag your ass out the second you start saying something dumb, Ford promises. 

Whiskey sighs, “Hand me a drink.”

Tango tosses him a twisted tea and he finishes it before they get down the stairs. The warm feeling radiates from his stomach. The cold doesn’t feel as cold, he’s not sure if it’s the tequila or Ford pressed up against his side. 

The Haus is already blasting music and the trio forces their way inside. 

Someone cheers when they arive. 

“Kegster!” Someone shouts and Whiskey finds himself doing a handstand above the beer keg, Tango holding onto his legs as he swallows shitty beer. Nursey pushes Tango to go next but he shakes his head and pushes Ford into the throng of hockey players. 

“I wouldn’t have scored if Foxy wasn’t so fast, it’s only fair.”

And then Foxtrot’s doing a kegstand and her biceps are a lot stronger than Whiskey would have pegged her for. 

She screams and Louis hits play on whatever he’s decided the right playlist for tonight is. Whiskey lets himself take a second cup of tub juice when Tango offers him one, he does shots with Nursey and Bully and someone has cigars to celebrate the victory and Whiskey even takes a puff before realizing that cigars are objectively disgusting. 

Stuff just starts to blur together, memories don’t form all the way but the one thing he does remember is that he’s happy. 

And then he realizes he’s nauseous. Something about the combination of extreme physical exertion, tequila, beer, tub juice and cigar smoke isn’t great for his stomach. Shocker. Ford sees him heading to the bathroom and skips up the stairs behind him. 

The throbbing in his head eases as he hunches over the toilet and throws up a delightful mix of digested chicken parm and like 5 different kinds of alcohol. 

“Whiskey?” Ford knocks on the door frame. 

Whiskey makes a groaning noise and Ford pushes the door open. 

It’s the bathroom between Chowder and Nursey’s room, he figured no one would need this one in any kind of a hurry. 

“Hiii Denice,” Whiskey slurs, “I’m a mess.”

“A little bit,” she crouches beside him. 

“M’okay,” he says, “Jus need to sit.”

“Okay,” she says, “I’ll sit with you.”

“Don’t wanna,” Whiskey coughs a little bit, the bile burns his throat but he spits it up anyway, “Don’t wanna bother you.”

“The perk of hanging out with hockey boys is that I don’t have to hold your hair back while you puke. Trust me when I say cast parties are worse.”

“Mmm,” Whiskey groans. 

Ford stands up to fill a cup of water and sets it down next to Whiskey. He downs half of it and leans against the bathtub. 

“Kent asked me to move in with him,” he blurts, there’s a slight smile on his face as he says it, his eyes squeezed closed because the lights hurt his eyes. 

“Oh?” Ford says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey’s voice is low and husky.He knows he’s pretty wasted. 

He is thankful that he’s doing this in the privacy of Chowder’s bathroom with Ford instead of somewhere that people might see. The sharks bathmat underneath of him is oddly comforting. 

“Are you going to?” She asks.Whiskey recognizes the careful tone she uses with disgruntled actors and drunk hockey players. Careful, soft, non-judgemental. Tango’s been on the receiving end of it more than a couple times. It’s the first time Whiskey;s heard it directed at himself. 

“I know it sounds stupid as fuck,” he takes a breath, “But I really really want to. I just,” he chokes, “I love him,” Whiskey says, “I really do and I think I’ve been in love before, I think I was in love with Rachel for a while, but the way I love Kent feels like the big one, and I know it hasn’t even been that long but I want to be with him as much as I can and if I move in for the summer I can do that and…” Whiskey sighs. 

Whiskey sighs again and Ford has her hand on his shoulder and he slides down onto the ground, the tiles are cool as he rests his head in Ford’s lap. 

“He feels so far away sometimes,” he says. And then there are tears prickling at the edge of Whiskey’s eyes and that’s… not normal. Whiskey doesn’t cry in front of people. Kent, once, and only kind of. But he feels the tears streaming down his face, hot against his cheeks and Ford’s hands are cool and gentle smoothing at his hair. 

“And tonight, he wasn’t here… but it was weird, that felt okay because at least our biggest problem today wasn’t that we’re two dudes in love, it was just that we’re so far away and that’s something normal people have to deal with and it felt so normal. I guess I just want to be normal. With him. For like. A couple months. And I guess I also knew he’d have been there if he could have and that he’ll be at the next thing because he wants to be with me for longer than just right now.”

Whiskey just cries now. Ford doesn’t make him talk anymore. 

The door eases open and Whiskey glances up. He sees Tango and then squeezes his eyes shut again, tears blurring his vision. It’s not like someone did something or said something, by all accounts, this is the best day he’s had in ages. But he’s drunk, and no one’s going to blame him for finally crying about the things he’s been pretending are fine. 

Tango silently sits on the edge of the bathtub. 

“Sorry guys,” Whiskey whispers.

“If getting drunk and being sad was a crime, we’d have to execute Tango,” Ford says. 

Whiskey manages a half smile. 

“What are we sad about?” Tango asks. 

“I’m in love and I hate it,” Whiskey says bluntly. 

Tango snorts, “Wow drunk words sober thoughts, huh?”

Whiskey laughs, “I feel  _ everything.  _ I didn’t know what people meant by heartache until now. Like I feel it. Like my chest hurts thinking about him because I love him so much.” Whiskey mumbles, “But I don’t want it to stop.”

Whiskey looks up at Tango, “Kent asked me to move in.”

Tango silently and wordlessly reaches out to fistbump Whiskey.

Whiskey laughs, he downs the rest of his water. His head’s clearing a little bit. 

“Okay,” he says, “I’m good.”

He sits up slowly, Ford puts her hand on one shoulder. 

“Thanks for being here,” Whiskey says, “And like… I dunno. Being cool about the whole thing,” he mumbles. 

“Dude,” Tango says, “Of course.”

Whiskey counts himself lucky to have Kent all the time.He thinks about how unlikely it all is. He knows that he never thought he’d get love like Kent gives. Never thought having a boyfriend was even in the realm of possibility. 

But until this moment, he hasn’t realized just how much he used to think he didn’t deserve friends like these ones. In the same way he never thought Kent Parson was coming for him, he never thought that Denice Ford and Tony Tangredi were either. 

“You guys are my best friends,” he says, “Like for real.”

“Okay, you’re not allowed to make us cry too,” Ford says. 

Whiskey wraps his arm around Ford’s shoulder’s, Tango slides down and hugs Whiskey.

“Puke and rally?” Whiskey says. 

The three of them laugh, Whiskey holds his friends tight.

“Let’s go,” Ford says. 

Whiskey manages to get to his feet. 

When they get back downstairs, Louis is playing We Are The Champions for what has to be the fourth time tonight. Jack and Shitty have arrived by now. Jack’s still wearing his Bittle jersey. 

Whiskey decides he’s going to order a Parson jersey tomorrow. Ford sees Lardo and they hug like old friends and Whiskey heads into the kitchen to grab another glass of water before he dives headfirst into the “rally” part of “puke and rally.”

He finds Bitty and Jack there. Bitty on the counter, Jack’s hand wrapped around his waist, faces close but not kissing. 

“Sorry,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“It’s just the kitchen,” Jack says. Whiskey notices he’s drinking water too as he fills his own glass. 

Bitty and Whiskey haven’t quite spoken since the incoherent yelling of the locker room and Whiskey doesn’t really feel like doing it without a clear head.

“You were really good tonight,” Bitty says after a long pause when Whiskey gulps down his water. 

“Thanks,” Whiskey says, “you probably gave more than the rest of us,” Whiskey laughs, he sees Bitty’s missing tooth. Knows about the concussion and how Bitty should probably be in his room upstairs. Guesses that’s probably why they retreated to the kitchen. 

Bitty laughs, “No next game,” he shrugs. 

Whiskey nods in agreement. 

“M’gonna find Ford,” he mumbles. 

He notices Jack studying him. He wonders how much Jack has figured out on his own, knows that Jack and Kent were mending bridges. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t mind that. 

It’s nearly four a.m. when the party finally fizzles out. Jack and Bitty went upstairs hours ago. 

Dex threatens to turn the hose on anyone who doesn’t leave and the party ends. 

“Fuck cleanup,” he mutters, “We’ll do it in the morning. He’s rubbing his eyes, slightly off balance. 

Whiskey offers his room up for Tango and Ford to crash, the accept. This is what friends do. Whiskey has friends and Whiskey has a team and a boyfriend and soon he’ll have an NCAA championship ring. 

Ford puts on a pair of Whiskey’s sweatpants. Tango gives her his hoodie, she’s basically swimming in the extra fabric. When they go to sleep, Ford’s sandwiched in between them but Tango’s arms are wrapped firmly around her. 

Huh, Whiskey thinks. That could be interesting. 

And then he passes out next to her. 

Samwell hosts a formal celebration the next day. Whiskey understands then why sunglasses always feature so heavily in pictures from NHL cup parades. There’s a lot less alcohol, a lot more children and the lights are  _ so  _ bright. They hold it at Faber, the autograph table set up once more. Whiskey manages to sneak away before too many people show up. In all the chaos, he hasn’t had time to call Kent. 

Kent answers the face time on the second ring. 

“So does my national champion finally have time to talk?” Kent says with a grin on his face. Whiskey’s snuck into the player’s lounge and folded his legs underneath of him on the couch. The lights aren’t quite as bright in here. 

“The guy who won a national championship has been replaced by a guy with a hangover and seventeen bruises on one leg.”

“I think I can talk to that guy too.”

“Hi,” Whiskey says, just happy to see his face, “I got your text.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I was pumped.”

“No,” Whiskey says, “It meant a lot.”

‘I just want you to know when I’m thinking about you.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “Me too.”

“What’s on the agenda for today.”

‘Signing some autographs. Taking the team picture. I think at some point around dinner it’s going to sink in that this is actually real life.”

“Sounds like you’re right on track.”

“I’ve thought a lot about the summer too,” Whiskey says. 

“Oh,” Kent says, “You uh… you don’t have to or anything,” Whiskey can see the blush on his cheeks. 

“No. I want to.”

Kent’s eyes brighten, he meet’s Whiskey’s gaze. 

“Okay, yes please,” Kent says. 

And his heart swells, he feels it pressing against his chest even if that’s not technically how biology works, it’s how he feels. 

“I just wanted to see you and let you know I’m not drunk in Mexico or something.”

“Oooh drunk in Mexico sounds nice,” Kent says, “Can we do that one day.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey smiles, “We visited my grandparents all the time when I was a kid. It’s nice.”

“I’d go anywhere if you were there,” Kent mutters. 

“Me too,” Whiskey smiles. 

“I’m really proud of you,” Kent says, it’s tender and sweet and then Kent’s cursing and he drops his phone. 

Whiskey laughs as Kent scrambles to pick it up. 

“You little shit,” he’s hissing. Kent can hear Kit hissing right back at him. She yowls. 

“I fucking told you you’d fall in.”

“What the fuck is happening here?” Whiskey says. 

Kent picks the phone up, he’s blushing. 

“Kit fell in.”

“Fell in what?” Whiskey smirks. 

Kent bites his tongue, looks down, then back at Whiskey, “The foot bath,” Kent mumbles. 

Whiskey snorts, “Princess.”

“Yes. It smells like lavender and it makes my feet feel less like they’re going to explode and I will take no criticism on that fact.”

Kent points the camera at Kit, she’s sulking, pressing herself against Kent’s leg. 

“You fucking menace,” he mutters, “she’s been sniffing around all day. Little shit.”

Kit mews, seemingly in protest. 

“Good girl,” Whiskey smirks. 

Kent rolls his eyes, “Go say hi to some kids and pretend you’re not sweating vodka,” Kent says, a sarcastic smirk on his face.

“Love you,” Whiskey mutters. 

Kent blows a goofy kiss at the camera. He sees a text notification pop up when he closes the video app.  _ Rachel.  _ He reads the first couple words then shoves his phone back in his pocket. They haven’t really spoken much outside of a few texts here and there since Whiskey had been in Arizona. Acknowledging Rachel means acknowledging home. Acknowledging home means acknowledging that his parents still haven’t called him.

He walks into the locker room, most of the other guys have already grabbed their clean jerseys and headed out to the autograph table. Whiskey pulls his on, it’s just him and Dex still in the room. Dex pull his jersey over a t-shirt and walks out. Then Whiskey’s alone. He takes a deep breath. 

He’s about to sign autographs. About to take a team picture. Connor Whisk is an NCAA champion. There’s no practice tonight. There’s nothing to practice for. His mother hasn’t called him. His father hasn’t called him. His boyfriend did. He loves his boyfriend, his boyfriend is Kent Parson. Kent Parson is an NHL player and the NHL doesn’t want their players to have boyfriends. 

Connor Whisk is having a panic attack. A small one, he thinks.

He’s learning how to recognize them. He breathes, feels like he can’t swallow. He holds his head in his hands. His chest is tight, it’s everything all at once. He feels like he’s about to drop away into nothingness. It’s so many things. Being alive is a barrage of thoughts and feelings and it feels like he’s feeling all of them at once. He’s going to be okay. He tells himself that. It’s going to be fine. He clears the notification from Rachel and sits back in his stall. 

It feels stupid, to think that breathing can help, but it really does. He finds his water bottle. He downs about half of it focuses on how cool the water feels against the back of his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

He has to do this. 

So he stands up. He thinks he feels a bit better now. His chest is still tight but he stands up and he’s grounded. He needs a distraction,he decides. He needs to make this feel real. He looks down at his jersey. Whisk #10. He can’t even remember picking that number now. It all feels so long ago and far away. 

There’s a kid wearing his jersey when he finally collects himself. He’ll text his therapist later. He knows she wants to know when it happens, still feels dumb talking about it. 

The kid in the Whisk jersey looks familiar. She has a single braid in her light brown bob. The other kids are running around, members of SMH have abandoned the autograph table to take pictures and no one’s really telling Whiskey what to do with himself so he walks up to her. 

“Dubs, right?” he says, remembering her nickname. The kid from the school day game. He remembers signing her hat, remembers her signing his, “I still have that hat,” he says.

She turns around, her face lights up. 

“Whisk!” She says, “Errr… Connor?”

“You can call me Whiskey,” he says, a small smile on his lips. 

He’s not sure if he should crouch down to talk to her. Not sure how old a kid has to be to find that condescending. He decides not to. 

“I watched the whole game,” she says, proud “I made my dad let me stay up late to watch the whole thing. I texted my team and told them I said you were good.”

“Well thanks,” Whiskey says. 

“S’just the truth.”

“Do you want me to sign the jersey?” he asks, awkward, fumbling in his jeans for the silver pen Ford had told him not to lose. 

“Oh,yes please!” She says. 

Whiskey signs his name on the number. Tries not to think too hard about how terrifying it is that this kid sees him as some kind of role model. 

_ To Dubs, Connor “Whiskey” Whisk. _

Then he thinks, just a little. This kid probably doesn’t care that he dates men.This kid might not even care that he’s dating an NHLer. This kid cares that he plays for Samwell, that he scored a good goal and he’s good on the backcheck. He thinks that might not be too bad. He wonders what her dad would say if he knew. He thinks about what it could mean to her if she knew, if she grew up to be…if her friends grew up to be... He shakes his head at the thought and joins Tango taking photos. 

Rachel calls him fifteen minutes after the team photo is taken and his throat closes. He ignores the call and walks to Hall and Murray’s office. His skates are in the locker room. 

“Hey, coach,” he says, “I was wondering if anyone had the ice booked,” he says. 

“Seriously, Whisk?” Hall chuckles.

Whiskey just nods. He tosses him a puck and the keys. 

“Lock up, son. Don’t wear yourself out.”

Whiskey skates. His wrists ache from holding his stick, his feet are screaming at him to stop, but he persists. 

His dad still hasn’t called him… and that shouldn’t matter. Why does it matter so much to him? And he just wants everything to stop. And he skates towards the net and he smashes his stick over the crossbar. It shatters. And that’s a dick move, and sticks are expensive and this is the second time he’s done this in one season. And he just, falls out, and he shouts and he hits the ice with his fists and he just stays there. 

“Uh, Connor?” He hears someone’s voice from the bench. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. 

He looks up and he sees Jack fucking Zimmermann. If there’s a list of people he doesn’t want seeing him looking like such a sad sack, #1 is Bitty and #2 is his childhood fucking role model, but here Jack is. 

He hears the gate creek open and Jack’s walking towards him on the ice. 

“Nope,” Whiskey says, he stands up and he skates off the ice. 

He bolts to the dressing room. Throws his gloves at the wall and furiously unlaces his skates. Jack’s standing in the doorway as he eases his left skate off. 

“You’re bleeding,” Jack points out. The spots of crimson show up on his white socks. He wishes he’d remembered to wear black ones. 

“Fucking what about it,” Whiskey mutters. 

“Why?”

“I needed to skate to stop thinking,” Whiskey spits, “Because there’s a lot to fucking think about.” There’s venom in his tone. 

“Hey, man, I get it.” Jack sits down in Chowder’s stall, perched on the edge all the way across the room. 

“That used to be my old stall,” Jack points at where Whiskey’s sitting. 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “I didn’t even realize.”

“Yeah.” Jack says. 

“Where’s Bitty.”

“I forgot my phone in Hall’s office. I told Bitty I’d meet him at the Haus. Then I heard you.”

“I don’t usually break sticks,” Whiskey mutters. 

“It’s okay,” Jack says, his voice is kind. 

Whiskey just nods, looking down at his hands. 

“I’m not an expert on this stuff or anything but if you feel-”

Whiskey cuts him off, “I have someone to talk to. Therapy or whatever.”

“Oh. Euh. Good.”

“Right,” Whiskey says, “I just need to skate. I feel like… I dunno. If I’m tired enough I won’t have to think.”

“You can’t really skate forever,” Jack says. He doesn’t mean it to be poignant but it is.

Whiskey nods, “I don’t…” He swallows, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Whiskey says, “Before at least I had the ‘ship to work for. Now it’s just… empty. And I guess I’m kind of losing my mind about the future and…” And that’s not it at all, Whiskey realizes. 

“My dad hasn’t called me,” he finally chokes out, “I wasn’t expecting him to be there. But at least a call. At least he could acknowledge that we did it… y’know.”

Jack just nods. 

“My dad used to think if he talked to me about hockey it would take me back to where I was when I overdosed,” Jack says. He’s talking about it so casually, he’s not making eye contact but Whiskey can’t imagine saying it so openly, “I think he thought it was his fault.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Whiskey asks. He means  _ why are you trusting me with this.  _

“Sometimes dads are complicated,” Jack says.

“I’ve never overdosed,” Whiskey says, bluntly. 

“It’s not a great time,” Jack says, dry laugh, “I guess I’m just saying I get it.”

“Thanks,” Whiskey mutters, “Kent called,” Whiskey clears his throat, “I think that matters more.”

“I euh… why would you… uh.”

“I know you know,” Whiskey rolls his eyes.

“Right, sorry,” Jack says, “Just kind of… I talk to both of you so… it lined up.”

“It’s fine.”

“I won’t tell Bitty.”

“Thanks.”

“Is he… He’s taking care of himself, right?” Jack asks, a flicker of something in his eye. Guilt? Regret? Concern. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “He’s really good.”

“They’ve got a shot, eh?”

Whiskey just nods. 

“Hey,” Whiskey says, “Do you think I’m doing something wrong if I don’t tell people that I’m… that Kent’s… that we’re. That I’m not straight,” Whiskey says. 

“Why would that be wrong?”

“I mean, you talk about having people to look up to,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Jack says, “Not a lot but yeah.”

“Bitty gets letters.”

Jack shakes his head, “You don’t have to. You don’t owe anyone that. I didn’t come out because I needed anyone to know. I came out because I love Bittle. I wanted that moment with him. I knew I’d take shit from people but it was worth it. Don’t do it if it’s not worth it.”

And Whiskey nods. He thinks he gets it. What Jack’s trying to say. 

“My dad would… I don’t know what my dad would say. He uh… liked you a lot less after. Said he was always a bigger Parson fan anyway, which is… ironic.”

Jack smirks, “I lost fans,” he acknowledges, “I think I gained some too.”

“Both of those thoughts terrify me.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jack says, “I don’t blame Kenny for not saying anything. I think it was easier because I kissed Bittle instead of putting out a statement. But again. I don’t really know. I’m still figuring it out.”

“Kenny,” Whiskey says as if trying the nickname out. 

“Oh,” Jack says, “Yeah. I couldn’t really pronounce the T in Kent when we were younger so he told me to call him Kenny.”

“Well he’s considerate like that.”

“I’m uh,” Jack says, “I’m not glad for what happened but I’m glad we didn’t work out so that you to got the chance to be together. I can tell it’s good.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Whiskey says. 

“I should head out before Bittle starts a search party. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna… I think I’ll call my dad.”

“Good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recovery isn't always linear
> 
> i don't know what else to say but yeah, Whiskey still doesn't know who he is or what he wants. But y'know,he's trying. this chapter is 5000 words and i literally had to split it into two because it was originally going to be several thousand more.


	35. save me, call me baby, run her hands through my hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title; Whiskey's on the phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from jackie and wilson by hozier (like kind of)

Stephen Whisk is having lunch when his phone rings. His son never calls him and his first thought is that something has to be wrong. 

“Connor?” he answers the phone. 

“Hey dad,” his son’s voice is feeble. 

“Hey, son,” he says, trying to keep his voice light, desperately hoping that his son’s not about to give him some terrible news. 

“I uh, just wanted to call. We haven’t talked for a while,”

“Well. No. We haven’t,” Stephen says. He stands up from the breakroom and walks out of the office. He can hear his son breathing on the other end, struggling to string words into a sentence. His son, his son who hits with his shoulder, who played through a broken finger when he was seven. His son who, upon seeing his mother cut her hand so badly that she needed stitches, calmly pressed a washcloth to her hand, got her a glass of water and informed Stephen that they had to drive to the emergency room. And the same boy is rendered meek by the simple act of calling his father. This is the boy who had to sit alone in a hotel room with a concierge while his girlfriend sobbed twenty minutes after her uncle skidded off the road. The boy who watched that girlfriend starve herself into nothingness. Stephen wants to tell his son how proud he is. How he told the entire office about the game this morning, re-enacted his game winner, showed them the video of that little manager girl throwing the stick to his best friend. 

But Stephen’s afraid too. 

He sits in his car, “Is there something you need, Connor?” he asks, “If you need money, you can always just text mom.”

“No,” Whiskey says, “Not that. I just…” he trails off. 

Stephen doesn’t know how to ask. Because he remembers that year. His wife calls it his “lost year.” Stephen regrets a lot of things he said to his son that year. He doesn’t know how to ask about hockey or school without throwing him back into that year, 18 and alone in his bedroom. Best friend locked away in a hospital room, coach nothing but a memory any more. He doesn’t want his son to go back there. Hockey did that to him once, Stephen lives in fear of hockey doing that again. 

“Dad,” he sighs. 

“Hey,” Stephen tries to make his voice gentle. Non-judgemental, “Whatever it is, we can handle it, alright.”

“It’s uh.” Connor sighs through his nose. His mother hates it when he does that. 

“I guess I just wanted to ask if you saw the game,” he mumbles. 

“Oh, is that all?” Stephen asks, “Your mother and I watched.” He tries to keep a neutral tone. He can’t be too proud, can’t let his son think he has expectations, because aren’t those what almost killed Jack Zimmemann?

“Yeah,” Connor says, “And I guess I want to tell you that I’m going to keep playing hockey,” he says, “That I’m going to play pro.”

“If that’s what you want,” Stephen says. He hates the way he contracts. 

“It is,” Connor says, “And I know that’s not what you want and you’d be happier if I got an office job and-”

“Woah,” Stephen says, “Hey, it’s your life Connor.”

“You’re my dad. You must want something.”

“For you to do what makes you happy. And I want you to be safe. That’s all.”

“Dad, you have  _ always  _ said that hockey has to end one day.”

“Because I didn’t want you to think I was pressuring you into playing.”

Connor sighs, “I never felt like that, dad.”

“Then why did you-” Stephen feels his voice getting sharp, “What happened?”

“Someone died, dad” Connor whispers, “I didn’t know… I just. We don’t need to talk about that but I just need you to know that it wasn’t hockey. I… It’s just a sport and I love it and I want to play it for as long as I can and all that other stuff… the stuff we don’t talk about. I’m workin’ on it. I just want you to know that.”

Stephen Whisk hasn’t hugged his son since he graduated high school, he can’t remember the time before that. But he’s never wished more that he could just drive to Samwell and pull his son close and hold him and tell him it’s okay. 

“There’s uh,” Whiskey says, “There’s a lot that I want you to know but if you don’t want to… I know we don’t really talk about our feelings much but it’s kind of important to me.”

Stephen swallows because he can feel it coming and he wants for it not to be true but he knows that it is and he already worries so much for his kid that he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to take it. He can hear his son holding his breath, no, that’s not right. He can feel it. Stephen Whisk wants his son’s life to be easy and this is another  _ thing  _ that makes it harder. 

“You don’t have to tell me, son,” Stephen says. 

“Right,” Connor answers. 

“You’re a big man. You make your own choices. I don’t need to know and your mother won’t want to know.”

“Yeah.”

Stephen hates that his son sounds so small. It feels better than some alternatives though. 

“Okay well. It was nice talking, dad.”

Whiskey wants to throw up when his father hangs up. 

“We never really talk, huh?” He says to no one in particular. 

He sees the voicemail from Rachel. Decides that he better listen to it, just in case. 

“You absolute dickhead,” she says after the beep, “Stop ghosting me and let me congratulate you, okay?”

Whiskey smiles, shaking his head. It doesn’t make him laugh, he thinks if his father hadn’t just shot any hope of emotional complexity within their relationship and basically told him not to bother coming out, he might have laughed. 

He calls Rachel back. The phone rings for longer than he expected. He hears running water when she picks up.

“I call you all day and you only call back while I’m in the shower!” she scolds. 

Whiskey does laugh that time, picturing her soaking wet and angry, head poking out of the shower. 

“Sorry. I can call later.”

“No, Con. I can talk,” she says. 

He pictures her perched on the counter wrapped in a towel. She used to do that all the time waiting for Whiskey in hotels.

“So. You won,” she says, glee in her voice. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Okay so why do you sound like someone just told you that they banned hockey.”

Whiskey chuckles, “I just got off the phone with my dad.”

“What did our old buddy, Steve, have to say.”

“Nothing,” Whiskey says, “He never says anything.”

“Ah yes, the Whisk clan. Did you know Whisk is an old english name that means,  _ emotionally distant. _ ”

“Shut up,” Whiskey rolls his eyes, “It’s Irish anyway.”

“Connor,” she rolls her eyes, “Just because everyone else from our hometown makes you feel like shit, doesn’t mean I’m gonna do that too,” Rachel has always been very good at figuring out exactly why Whiskey acts the way he does, “Just because I’m from there doesn’t mean you get to ignore me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you man. I literally just wanted to say congrats and I have literally never been happier for you and I wanted you to know that.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry I was a dickhead.”

“Apology accepted,” he can feel her preening through the phone.

“Okay can I tell you something.”

“Yes, Connor, you don’t have to ask.”

“Okay, so you remember when you asked me if I was gay at the beginning of the year?”

“Quite vividly.”

“So I think I have an answer.”

“And?”

“I think I’m bisexual. Pretty sure.”

“I mean no offense, but I’d been operating under that assumption.”

“What gave me away? Was it the fact that we had sex constantly?”

“It might be that,” Rachel says. 

Whiskey had never disliked having sex with Rachel, it was always the moment after where they realized that they had stopped being just friends in that moment. Whiskey always kind of hated that they felt pushed together by people’s expectations of them. He loved her though. He loves her. 

“I’m happy for you.”

“That means a lot to me.”

“I know we don’t talk all the time but you’re still my friend.”

“I feel the same way.”

“Soooo,” she says, “Are you still hooking up with that lacrosse boy.”

“Uh. No,” Whiskey says. 

“Oooh, okay. Single then? Because my dad keeps asking when we’ll get back together and if I could give him some hope...” she teases. 

“No. I’m not single. I’m seeing someone.”

“Okay Connor Whisk I would like to know every detail.”

So Whiskey spills. Kent and being in love and the way he feels and how it all happened and it all comes so easily. He feels like he’s talking to an old friend because he is and he doesn’t even hesitate when he tells her it’s Kent. 

“Hey, Connor,” Rachel says, when he’s finally said everything he has to say.

“Yeah,” he says. 

“He’d be proud of you.”

Whiskey swallows hard. She doesn’t have to say who. He just shakes his head. 

“He would've wanted me in the NHL.”

“He would have wanted you to be happy and play hockey. Don’t you remember. It was always the best part, how happy we were.”

“Do you think he’d… would he see me different if he knew…”

“About Kent?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey chokes. 

“No. And he would have beat you if he knew you were thinking of yourself differently because of it.”

“I hate that you always have something to say.”

“I’m the smart one, babe.”

“You’re not smart, I’m just an idiot.”

“You know if you still need a beard for fancy shit… I like fancy shit.”

“Wouldn’t a beard imply that I’m totally gay?”

“Okay, so then a decoy.”

“Mmm yeah, okay I can roll with that. Isn’t that not fair if you end up dating someone though?”

“I mean I could tell them. But also I am so fucking busy I don’t see that happening any time soon.”

Whiskey tells Rachel that he loves her and he means it before he hangs up. Then he looks down at his socks. Dots of blood are still staining the white cotton near his ankles, he can see the bruises on his calves. He slides on his sneakers and sighs. 

He knows that he fucked up, a little and he’s tired and he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, he just wants to go back ot his dorm and sleep, except there is one person he wants to be with. Not necessarily talk to, just exist in the same bubble. 

So he dials Kent’s number for the second time this morning. He knows he’ll be home, it’s the day between games.

“Kit is in the refrigerator,” Kent says, by way of answering. 

“What?” Whiskey shakes his head. 

“I made a sandwich, I ate my sandwich, then I was like, ‘gee, I wonder where Kit wandered off to, I haven’t seen her in a minute,’ and then I searched the whole fucking place and finally I gave up and opened the floor and,” Kent switches from the front camera and Kit is indeed sitting in the fridge next to a head of lettuce. She looks entirely unbothered, licking her paw, curled up in the vegetable drawer, “And this motherfucker was in here.”

“Maybe you should turn your air conditioning up for once.”

“Don’t say that too loud or the state of Arizona might disown you.”

Whiskey chuckles. 

“What’s up, by the way.”

“Shitty day,” Whiskey says, “I’m leaving the rink now,” 

Whiskey puts his earbuds in as he picks up his bag. 

“Did you like, barf on a kid or something?” Kent jokes. 

Whiskey smiles, laughs to himself, “Thank god, no.”

“Are you okay?”

Whiskey considers it, “Yeah. Called my dad, it was… weird.”

“Oh?”

Whiskey shrugs, still looking at Kent, “I think I had like three different heart to hearts in the last hour.”

“You wanna make it four?”

“Honestly, I just wanna hang out.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “My dad’s just… ugh, y’know?”

He sees Kent nod, “He seemed like he might be.”

Whiskey laughs. He holds his phone in front of himself as he walks out of the rink. 

‘It was just. I dunno. Could be worse.”

Kent turns the corners of his lips up, gives Whiskey a sad little half shrug. 

“It was just a bad day. Except this kid, all the other ones kind of blur together but she’s just this fiery little hockey player. I’ve talked to her before, signed her jersey today.”

“You probably made her day.”

“Huh. Yeah. Maybe.”

“You can have a shitty day that’s nice in some parts.”

“It’s better now that I’m talking to you.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees.

Whiskey slips his phone into his pocket as he walks up the stairs, Kent’s voice is still in his earbuds.

“So what’d you get up to.”

“Not much,” Kent admits, “Boring day off. Coach’s orders. They’re worried about re-aggravating a shoulder injury so the most I’m allowed to do is go for a jog and since it’s like 85 degrees out, I’d rather not.”

“That’s not even that hot.”

“Okay, Arizona.”

“When did you hurt your shoulder.”

“I was 17. Separated it at the World Junior tournament. Had to sit out a game but they gave me enough painkillers that I could play the final. Dumb move looking back.”

“We all do dumb shit when we’re seventeen.”

“Can confirm.”

Whiskey pulls his phone out of his pocket as he shoves his dorm room door open. 

“So then what are you up to?”

“I’ve been playing a bunch of NHL. Swoops likes to play online.”

“You don’t strike me as a video game guy.”

“I’m not. They do send you a copy if you’re face is on the cover though.”

“Ha. Oh yeah,” Whiskey says, he remembers seeing copies of NHL 16 with Kent’’s face plastered all over them last time he’d been to the mall. 

“Are you saying you didn’t rush out and buy a copy immediately?”

“Unfortunately not. I think there’s a communal copy at the Haus.”

“Wow, I can’t believe Bittle let something with my face in that place.”

“Wonder how he’d feel about you if he knew how much you’ve debauched his first line centre.”

“College word,” Kent teases him, “and I think you’ve done just as much debauching as I have.”

Whiskey raises an eyebrow, “So when’s the next time I get to debauch you?”

“Never if we keep calling it debauchery.”

“Okay, when’s the next time I can touch your ass?”

Kent snorts, “I wish I had an idea. If we win in five, I have almost a week off, but if we go to six or seven it’ll be right into the next series and it’s looking like we’re playing Dallas next round so it’s not like you could really come for a game.”

Whiskey sighs, “I know. Got lucky in the first round. I guess we’ll just have to get lucky on snapchat for the next little while.”

“Isn’t it so glamorous dating an NHL player?’

“Oh yeah, we’re just living the dream.”

Whiskey yawns. 

“Tired?” 

“I wore myself out at the rink again,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Mmm,” Kent says, “You’re sure you’re okay, you only really do that when…”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says, “I just didn’t know what to do with myself. Season’s over, we won. What now?”

“Go to class, for a start.”

“Besides that.”

“I wish I had the answer. Post-season depression is a thing.”

“Jack showed up. Jack Zimmermann.”

“I didn’t think you were talking about a different Jack,” Kent chews on his bottom lip, “He say anything?”

“He knows about us.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Kind of makes me feel better in a way. Like I trust the guy with that.”

“He’s a good guy,” Kent says, “I think we’re trying to be friends again.”

Whiskey smiles softly, “Good.”

“Yeah, feels like we’re finally being adults about it.”

“He’s the only one who gets it. Even a little bit, so it makes sense that you want to be friends again.”

Kent nods. 

Whiskey leans against his wall, head hanging loose. 

“You look like you’re gonna fall asleep sitting up.”

“It’s been a long couple days.”

“Take a nap.”

“I have to meet Tango and Ford for dinner in a couple hours anyway.”

“Set an alarm,” Kent says, “Or better yet, I’ll call you to wake you up.”

“Will you talk to me while I fall asleep.”

“Of course.”

Whiskey would rather be nuzzled up against Kent’s chest, Kent’s fingers lightly tracing Whiskey’s temples. He’d rather feel Kent’s nails scratching the short hairs on the back of his neck, wants to feel Kent’s breath as he recounts Kit’s most recent run in with Kelli’s dog. 

This is a close second though, and he’ll take a close second. 

Kent doesn’t have it in him to hang up once Whiskey dozes off. He keeps his phone turned on next to him while he unpauses his video game. He looks over every couple of minutes and can’t stop the way his heart flips in his chest every time he sees him. He’s always thought his boyfriend was tense, smiling with furrowed brows and standing with hunched shoulders. He’s seen him sleep like that too, pulled up into himself, brows knitted together, even in unconsciousness. But his favourite moments are when he relaxes into his arms, when Kent traces his brow bone and it feels relaxed. He looks like that now, as if Kent’s voice and his presence was enough too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2 more chapters i think but also series eventually tbh)  
> comments always appreciated, you've all been so wonderful to me while i write this :)  
> I took great joy in taking the bl🤮ckh🤮wks off of the cover of nhl 16 and replacing them with Kent who is trashy but also respects women and minorities


	36. May be tiny to the world, but in our hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's kind of an emotional couple days for Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? using Mika lyrics as a title again?   
> the title is, again, from tiny love by mika
> 
> also there's a passage in this chapter where the members of SMH completely get thirsty over real athletes and it's slightly maybe a little bit me projecting, but oh well, whatever

Whiskey can think of one thing that Bitty would want to talk to him about and it has nothing to do with dibs. He hasn’t tried to secure a place in the Haus, not even a little bit. Tango’s been driving Ollie and Wicky around all year to try and lock down the attic, but Whiskey doesn’t even know if he wants to live in the Haus- scratch that, he doesn’t know if anyone else would want him to live in the Haus. 

He takes longer to walk to the Haus than he normally would, takes the long way around. 

**Bitty:** **Hey Connor :) can you swing by the Haus when you have a second! I’ll be in my room :)**

So. He’s going to have to tell Bitty something and that something cannot be that he’s dating Kent Parson. His mouth feels dry and his palms are sweaty but he keeps his face. He’ll tell Bitty about the party. He’ll have to. He can tell Bitty about Chad and how it’s complicated...or he could lie...but he’s trying not to do that anymore. 

But aren’t some lies okay? Would this even really be a lie? It’s not a lie anymore if you’re doing it to protect yourself. He’s no closer to figuring out what to do by the time he walks into the Haus. The door’s propped open so he just slides in, he can smell something baking and there’s a light breeze coming through all the open windows. 

It’s springtime, Whiskey only has one exam left, his suitcase is already packed and he’s been texting Kent every day. They started counting weeks until Whiskey would be in Vegas, then days, now they’re counting hours. 

He has to do this first, though. It’s not fair, he thinks. That doesn’t change it. 

Bitty’s bedroom door is propped open, his things are in boxes. 

“Hey Bits,” Whiskey announces himself, leaning on the doorframe, he keeps one hand in his pocket so Bitty can’t see him clenching it in an attempt to calm himself down, “Got your text,” he says. 

“You can probably guess what this is about,” Bitty says gently. 

And fuck that. Honestly,  _ just tell me _ , Whiskey thinks.  _ Tell me exactly what you think of me and get it over with, tell me what you think of the lacrosse bros, tell me what you think of Kent Parson. Tell me just how complicated I am. Tell me that people are going to look up to me. Tell me that those kids I signed autographs for need a better guy to look up to, one who’s not ashamed of every part of who he is, not just the parts of him that like boys. Tell me I’m a shitty teammate, tell me I’d make a shitty pro, that Jack secretly hates me, that you secretly hate me. Tell me that you love me like a brother or a cousin or a teammate, say something sappy. Tell me that I’m fucked up, that, or oversimplify it, whatever you’re going to say to me, Bitty, just fucking say it. I’ll take it. But don’t make me guess. Don’t sugarcoat this  _

Whiskey feels like he’s burning from the inside but letting Bitty see that would be the wrong move. 

“Well.” He says. 

“Whiskey you should have my room,” Bitty says. 

And something in Whiskey falls away. Bitty wants him in the Haus… Bitty would give him his room. His eyebrows knit together, he looks away. 

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised. Oh, no, did Ollie and Wicks give you theirs?”

That would be pretty funny, Whiskey thinks. This big grand gesture of the dibs, ruined by a miscommunication. He sees the panic on Bitty’s face, it’s less funny now. 

“No!” he says, “I dunno, I guess,” he turns away from Bitty, Why me and not… Dex? Or Ford?” They would deserve it, they would have worked for it. 

Whiskey doesn’t feel like he deserves it. There’s no universe in which this is how he thought this conversation would go.

“Wellm Dex has his bungalow… which honestly is like a five star resort. I think he likes his basement,” Bitty chuckles. 

Whiskey runs his hand along the memorabilia that lines Bitty’s bulletin board. A team picture is pinned next to a ticket stub, there’s a selfie he took with Jack, they both look younger. He sees the pucks, wrapped in tape, different milestones written on the white tape in sharpie. He runs his fingers over them. 

Whose pictures would he hang on this bulletin board? He has one of Kent, he thinks would look nice. From New Years, he didn’t know he was taking it, had his arms around Kelli’s waist, he’d looked up at Whiskey just as he was taking the picture, just before the flash went off. Kent looks drunk, and happy, and really  _ really  _ in love. And Tango, and Ford, that picture of them standing next to Wellie the well, maybe a team photo. 

“Whiskey,” Bitty says. Whiskey doesn’t turn to face him, “you  _ make  _ this team and you should live in the Haus. I think you’d make the entire team stronger for it.”

Whiskey’s heard Bitty’s captain’s voice before, but he hasn’t noticed the sincerity behind it until now. He thinks if he turned to see Bitty’s face, his huge brown eyes looking at him, he’d cry, or bolt, or both.

He pulls a puck down, turns it over in his hand. Bitty’s first assist. He wonders if that’s the first time he felt like he belonged on the team. 

“We never talked about that party,” Whiskey whispers, like if he says it quiet enough, he might not hear. 

“We don’t have to,” Bitty says. 

Bitty needs to know though… he needs to know why Whiskey didn’t say anything at first, why Whiskey ran, why he still feels like he’s running. Words though, words are hard. 

“I’m not-”he cuts himself off,  _ gay _ , he was about to say. He’s not gay, so it won’t be a lie when he shows up to red carpets with Rachel on his arm, it won’tbe a lie when they ask him who his type of girl is in some dumbass interview and he says, “someone sweet.”

“I’m still. Could still. I’m still dating my girlfriend, you know that right?” Whiskey says. 

He doesn’t know how to tell Bitty about the arrangement they came up with the other day without telling Bitty about Kent. It’s  _ complicated.  _

“I think…” Whiskey trails of  _ it’s easier with her. He won’t mind. Easier for both of us,  _ “Where I’m from, it’s not like Samwell… I’ve been here two years and I’m still getting used to it.”

Where he’s going won’t be like Samwell either. 

“I’m a pretty private person. I don’t need to be flashy or-stand out.”

He wants Kent to himself, wants what they have in the bubble that they’ve worked so hard to build. 

“Except on the ice,” Bitty points out. 

“Hah, yeah,” Whiskey mumbles, “What I do and who I do it with doesn’t need to be anybody’s business.”

“Sure of course.”

It’s like he’s been waiting for the time to tell all this to Bitty, he realizes that he has been waiting, that he’s been running this conversation in his head since November. 

“And I’m trying to figure that out. I don’t think- or…”

He never said he was good at planning.

“I can’t be like you,” Whiskey turns to Bitty. 

And the honesty in his own voice damn near kills him.  _ Can’t  _ not  _ won’t  _ not  _ shouldn’t  _ can’t. Bitty is… braver’s not the right word, but he does have something that Whiskey doesn’t. He didn’t think before he kissed Jack, he can do that. Every move Whiskey’s made since he was 13 has been calculated, every plan he’s made has been to get him a spot on a National Hockey League roster. And that’s not Bitty. 

Bitty’s got freedom. Whiskey always knew what he was getting into, that the NHL wants you to be a man in a very specific kind of way. He signed up for it. That doesn’t make it feel any less stifling.

“You don’t have to be,” Bitty says. 

Whiskey clears his throat, “Right,” he says. He wonders if he wants to be, if he envys Bitty in whatever small way, “Because I’m not,” he says, “or. It’s college,” Whiskey says as if that explains everything. Things are supposed to be complicated in college, right?

When Bitty holds his hand out for Whiskey to shake, he doesn’t hesitate. 

He has a room. In the Haus. A staircase away from Tango. He’s neer felt at home in the Haus, but maybe that changes now. He let’s a smile creep up on him as he walks down the hallway. 

Bitty graduates in three days, he has to kiss the ice, say his goodbyes.Whiskey has to convince his parents to let him spend a summer with Kent Parson. 

He’s sitting on top of a pile of laundry in his bedroom when he finally works up the courage to do it. 

“Connor?” His mother's voice says over the phone, as if she didn’t just see his contact information. 

“Hi mom,” he says. 

“How are your exams going, love,” her voice is gentle. He can hear her moving around the kitchen. She never sits still when she’s on the phone. 

“Good. Just one more left.”

“Okay good. Have you found a flight for when you come home?” She asks. 

He can picture her, phone pressed between her shoulder and her ear stirring something on the stove. He knows that she’ll make salsa verde the day he gets back, she’ll start in the morning and leave it out on the table. She’ll act like it’s a total coincidence and she was going to “whip some up anyway,” but she knows it’s his favourite. She makes tamales for his dad when he gets back from business trips. It’s a lot easier for her to say “i love you,” that way than to do it out loud. He wonders if Kent would like his mom’s food, if his mom would like Kent enough to make him her food. 

“I wanted to talk about that, actually,” he says. 

“You’re coming home, Connor,” she says. Not up for debate.

“No, yeah. Of course. I know,” Whiskey says. 

“Okay, so then what is it?”The Whisks don’t beat around the bush. 

“I obviously want to come home and I can’t wait to see you and dad… but after that. I’m going to spend some time with Kent.”

“Kent Parson?” His mother says. Her voice borders on shrill without actually being a yell. 

“I don’t know another Kent,” Whiskey chuckles,she doesn’t. 

“Connor,” she says, “that’s. I know you’re friends. But isn’t that an imposition?”

“He invited me,” Whiskey says, “And I want to.”

“How well do you even know him?”

Whiskey would laugh if he didn’t feel like he was about to throw up, “Well. Really well, mom.”

He hears his mother’s breath catch, she covers it with a sigh. 

“I’m not really asking,” Whiskey says, “I’m 21.”

“I know, honey,” she says. 

“Kent and I are… We…” Whiskey swallows, “He uh… me and him-” 

His mother cuts him off, “Don’t say something you can’t take back. Don’t break my heart if you don’t have to.” she says. 

There it is. 

“I liked him when he was staying with us, he’s a nice man and I’m glad you have a friend who plays in the NHL, that will come in handy,” there’s no feeling in the way she speaks to him. He knows it’s not worth it. Denial is powerful and the Whisk family has mastered it. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

“Well,” she says, “We’d love to have you home for however long you decide is best.”

“Great,” Whiskey says. His voice is flat.

“I love you, sweetheart. Don’t forget to study tonight.”

“I won’t mom,” he says. 

“I’ll tell your father you said hi.”

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t feel… bad necessarily. He’s definitely felt worst, he just feels like they’re supposed to care more. Like… they know, they so clearly know, but they won’t say it. They’re not angry, he thinks he’d like it better if they were angry, if they told him never to come home, disowned him, called him a disappointment, at least then he’d know where everything stood. Right now, he feels like eh’s walking on eggshells, or trying to sneak out of the house to get to a party but every floorboard feels like it might creak underneath of him. He’s really trying not to make the floorboards creak. 

“Whiskey?” He hears someone’s voice on the other side of his door. It’s Ford, he recognizes the way she projects through the wood like only a theatre kid could. 

“Yo!” Whiskey sits up, he opens the door.

“Lunch?” Ford asks, Tango’s leaning against the wall behind her, “What do you say we bid farewell to the dining hall,” she’s smiling. 

“Okay, yeah,” Whiskey grabs his phone and keys without hesitation. 

Sometimes it’s good to dwell, sometimes it makes sense to think, or to talk, but right now, he wants to be with his friends. He knows where he stands here. 

It’s strange, thinking about how this is the last lunch they’ll share in their second year. They all order chicken tenders. 

“Bitty gave me his dibs,” Whiskey informs them. 

Tango’s busy drowning his fries in vinegar. 

“Wow,” Ford says, “I mean i kind of saw it coming.”

“Wish you would have told me.”

She laughs, “Ollie and Wicks gave us theirs,” Tango says.

“Both of you?” Whiskey raises one of his eyebrows. 

“Well yeah, it’s big enough,” Ford shrugs, “Dex offered to wall off my half but it’s not like a big deal. Like he shouldn’t be worried about Tango watching me change.”

“I’ve seen you change, it’s nothing special,” Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“Oh please, you’re not much to look at either. ” Ford rolls her eyes. 

“Can we just all agree that there’s nothing sexually appealing about each other and move on?” Tango asks. 

The three of them nod.

“Are you going home after class day?” Tango asks. 

Both Ford and Whiskey tell him their plans. A few days with his family, then he’s flying to Vegas to meet Kent. 

“That’s a big step,” Ford says. 

“I really really know,” Whiskey says, “It feels crazy but also not crazy at all.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Since November,” Whiskey says, “But I asked him to be my boyfriend on New Years day, so four and a half months total.”

“People have gotten married in less time than that,” Tango waves his hand, smirk on his face, “Would you ever get married in vegas?”

“Not by Elvis,” Whiskey says. 

They finish their lunch in 15 minutes, but they sit there for hours, nowhere to be, just sitting in it, with each other. Whiskey thinks he won’t mind living a flight of stairs away from these two. 

Whiskey understands why everyone loves Faber so much. It’s a beautiful place, really, just fucking gorgeous. The way the light streams in during practices, the sun coming up over the pond, makes everything seem pink and orange. Whiskey loves being able to see the sun drop as they take the ice for warmups. He can see the stars right now. 

But Faber is more than this building. It means something more. The people make the building what it is. 

He’s standing behind the boards, Ford’s next to him, her shoulder pressed against his side. She has a solo cup in her hand and she’s been passing it to him every now and then so he can take a sip. 

Bitty’s on his hands and knees. Whiskey watches him press his lips to the eyes, tears leaking out of his eyes. Whiskey’s chest wrenches because… well he can’t quite figure out why. It’s Bitty. Bitty’s not his friend, he’s a teammate at best, but he’s been the constant the entire time Whiskey’s been at Samwell. His presence has always meant something here, on the bench, on the ice. 

Bitty graduates and the team changes, the team Whiskey’s on next year won’t be like the one he’s been on for the past two years. He looks over at Dex, captain Dex now. He’d voted for him, it’s what everyone else said they were going to do and it made sense to Whiskey. Dex cares, he’d yapped at enough officials on everyone’s behalf to have earned it. 

And Tango, Tango’s sitting on the boards next to Dex, grin on his face, he loves being a part of this team more than anyone else except maybe Chowder. 

He feels Ford sniffling next to him, Whiskey wraps his arm around her, squeezes her shoulder. He rests his chin on top of her head, she reaches out and squeezes Tango’s knee. 

“Love you guys,” Whiskey mutters so that only they can really hear. 

Ford flies to California tomorrow, Tango’s driving home at the end of the day. This is their last night all together as second years. It’s going to be the last night they’re going to drink too much and laugh too hard.

Whiskey didn’t know Bitty in Bitty’s second year, he wonders what he was like. He wonders what his first year was like, what it was like playing with Jack. He knows what it was like to find his family though, his family’s standing right next to him. 

He never intended to find out what the ice feels like under his lips. Samwell was supposed to be temporary, play one season and then fuck off, maybe play two and sign somewhere. These were never supposed to be his traditions. He looks over at Ford and Tango. Sees Ollie and Wicks standing next to Bitty as they come back to the bench. He’s going to kiss the ice one day. 

They go up to the roof. The crew left it open, just like Murray and Hall “forgot” to lock up tonight. Someone throws Whiskey a can of hard seltzer, he opens it and knocks some of it back. 

The members of SMH are rarely quiet, they’re not a contemplative bunch. But tonight, they sit mostly in silence. It’s a chorus of “remember when”s, sitting around a little fire pit as the wind whistles around them. For nuzzles against Whiskey’s chest, she’s a little drunk, a little tired and pretty cold. Whiskey lets her nestle underneath his fleece jacket. 

“So, Dexy,” Nursey says, “Is your first act as captain to replace that fucking dryer.”

“I swear to god, I’ll be able to fix it,” Dex mumbles. 

Bitty rolls his eyes, “I will  _ not  _ miss that,” he chuckles, Whiskey sees the fire flickering, reflected in his eyes. 

Ollie and Wicks are next to him, Ollie’s head in Wicky’s lap, Wicky gently running his hand over his roommate’s brow bone. 

“That attic’s in good hands, I hope,” Wicky says. 

Tango smiles, soft, he nods. 

“Offer’s still on the table if you want me to rig up a wall or something,” Dex says. 

“You didn’t offer us a wall!” Wicks protests, half joking. 

“I mean… fucking whatever,” Dex grumbles, “To the class of 2017,” he holds up a can of beer. Everyone follows suit, holding up their cans, Whiskey holds his up. He looks across the firepit at Bitty. He meets his gaze, nods his head gently,  _ “we’re cool,”  _ he hopes he’s saying. 

“So what’s the plan for the summer, Bits,” Nursey asks, he’s sitting back, propping himself up on an elbow. 

“Jack and I are going down to Madison for a while,” Bitty says.

He does this thing when he’s bashful, he pulls his shoulders up, hunches into himself, he shrugs. 

“Have you looked at one job posting or are you planning on being a trophy husband?” Nursey teases. 

“Derek Nurse!” Bitty scolds, "We're not even engaged," he mumbles.

Ford’s snickering against him.

“Hey man, I’d take that deal if I could get it,” Tango says.

“You’re all going to make me blush,” Bitty’s nose is already turning red. 

“Oh really, who’s trophy husband would you be?” Chowder asks. 

“Alex Morgan,” Tango answers immediately. 

“You sound like you’ve thought about that, eh, bud?” Nursey snorts. 

“She’s like the best soccer player in America right now, I would happily be her trophy husband, are you telling me you’re better than that?”

“Hmm, okay. You make some points,” Nursey concedes.

“Might have to keep your day job there Tango,” Ford points out, “Or go to law school.”

“Oh trust me, I know all about the equal pay lawsuit,” Tango rolls his eyes, “Absolute cowards,” he clenches his fist. 

"Okay, cowboy," Whiskey pats him on the shoulder, "We've all heard your lecture."

“Who do you trophy husband for?” Ford asks Nursey. 

“Hmmm,” Nursey thinks about it for a second, “Giannis, It’s gotta be Giannis,” Nursey says, “That is one pinnacle of a man.”

“I can respect that,” Dex nods, “Though if we’re talking basketball players, you’ve gotta put some respect on Liz Cambage.”

“She would crush you, Poindexter,” Nursey points out.

“Some people are into that,” Chowder says. His voice is so innocent for a man saying the filthiest thing anyone’s said so far. 

“Okay then, C, who’s your hall pass,” Nursey says after their done wheezing. 

“Maddie Rooney,” Chowder nods to himself. 

“Dude, she looks exactly like Farmer and she’s a goalie, she’s exactly your type.”

“Isn’t she retired?” Bitty asks.

Chowder nods,”Unfortunately.”

“Amanda Kessel,” Ford blurts. 

“What?” Tango turns around. 

“Amanda Kessel, she’s  _ so pretty, _ ” she looks into the fire, pensive. She glances up at Whiskey, "Hilary Knight looks like the kind of woman who'd ruin your life and then ghost you, but I'd consider it."

He knows his own answer.

“I don’t like how my mentioning Jack turned into you all being thirsty for beloved american athletes,” Bitty laughs, he gets a flush on he cheeks when he’s tipsy. 

“Liz Cambage is Australian,” Dex points out. 

“I stand corrected.”

“Is Mashkov dating that reporter from channel 7 yet?” Ford asks. 

“Why, you want your chance with the Russian,” Tango elbows her. 

“I’m just saying, some people wouldn’t mind being thrown around by a large Russian man.”

“Oh lord,” Bitty rolls his eyes. 

Whiskey’s surprised to find himself laughing. He spent so long shutting down whenever someone mentioned sex. He never had the talk with his parents, he never got to tell anybody about the people he had crushes on (like he’s still not going to tell Bitty he definitely crushed on his current boyfriend, but that feels fair regardless of circumstance) but now it feels different. It feels... nice. 

And no one’s trying to drag anything out of him, make him overshare when everyone knows he’d rather not and that’s… nicer. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket, his friends have moved on to throwing cheese puffs into each other’s mouths, taking turn reaching into the party sized bag that Chowder brought.

**KP:** **i know ur with ur friends so don’t feel like you have to answer**

 **KP:** **but**

Whiskey’s heart skips a beat, but then, a video of Kit, launching herself headfirst at Kent’s massive fucking TV. Kent’s watching highlights from last night's playoff games, she launches herself at the massive image of Brock Boeser’s face. The Aces had beaten the Flyers last week in game seven, they were leading Dallas in the second round series, and so far it’s looking like they’ll be playing the Canucks for the conference title.

“Elias Pettersson,” Whiskey blurts out. 

“Huh?” Tango asks. 

“I’d be his trophy husband,” he says. 

“Oh hell yeah, dude,” Nursey reaches around the fire pit to fist bump him. Whiskey’s blushing, realizing what he’s said. He looks down at the can in his hand as if that’s to blame for his sudden honesty.

“Though, I’d rather… y’know, play with the guy,” Whiskey mutters. 

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Dex rolls his eyes. 

He’s getting made fun of, but it feels familiar, good hearted in a way that Whiskey didn’t know could be directed towards him. 

He likes Kent’s message.

**Whiskey:** **I’ll call you later, love you**

 **KP:** **okay <3**

Then he turns back to Ford. The conversation moves on, Nursey dare himself to light a cheeto on fire and put it in his mouth. Dex has to pour cold beer on his tongue to get him to stop tearing up. Then Whiskey, Tango and Ford peel off. It’s nearing midnight but no one wants to go home just yet. 

There’s still a six pack in Tango’s backpack, they agree to head over to the pond and split it. The grass is dewy near the edge of the water but that doesn’t deter Ford from flopping onto the ground and sighing. Tango flops down next to her while Whiskey crosses his legs underneath of him and sits near Tango’s head. 

“You ever think about how that’s gonna be us one day?” Tango asks. 

Ford nods instantly, “Yeah,” she says, “And you two are gonna be captains,” she says. 

“Bullshit,” Whiskey shoots back immediately. He’d vote for Tango in a heartbeat, that’s not what he’d take issue with. 

“Don’t be so humble,” Ford rolls over onto her stomach to look at Whiskey and pull a cocktail out of Tango’s backpack. 

“Not humble. I just won’t do it. I’d refuse,” he says. 

“Dramatic,” she snorts. 

“I’d vote you captain before I did it myself,” Whiskey says to her. 

“I can’t skate.”

“We’ll teach you,” Tango offers. 

“You said you roller skated for that musical one time, it’s the same thing but harder,” Whiskey adds. 

“Footloose,” Ford nods, “I’d give it a go,” she concedes. 

Whiskey grabs his own can, draws his knees up and looks out over the pond. Four months ago he’d kissed Kent here for the first time, the ice had been frozen, Kent had shown him how it could hold him. Whiskey trusted the ice for the first time. 

He notices the tension in his own shoulders most of the time, the way his brows knit together and his fists clench. He notices less when he’s relaxed, taking it for granted when he feels comfortable, not realizing until the next time he feels closed off. 

“You’ve got a type, eh?” Tango elbows him from his spot in the grass.

“Fuckin, what?” Whiskey says. 

“Weird blonde dudes who play hockey and say they’re over six feet but actually they’re probably like 5’10”,” Ford says. 

“I’m never telling you two anything,” Whiskey chirps. 

“Hey man, I get the appeal,” Ford holds her hands up in front of her. 

“And he’ll make mad bank next contract,” Tango asks. 

“I don’t think those are the assets I was thinking about,” Whiskey admits.

They devolve into giggles, Tango curse Whiskey for making him choke on his drink and Ford has to sit up to catch her breath, wheezing too hard. 

She rests her head against Tango’s chest, still grinning. 

“I’m gonna miss you guys,” she sighs. 

“Are you glad you burst the bro bubble?” Tango asks. 

She smiles, “Thrilled.”

“Don’t let the groupchat die this summer, okay?” Whiskey says. 

“Promise,” Tango says, he puts his hand on top of Whiskey’s. 

“This is my solemn vow,” Ford says. 

Whiskey hasn’t giggled so often in his entire life as he has with these friends. 

“We should watch a movie or something,” he says, “I’m cold and you guys can crash in my room again.”

“Aw,” Ford says, “I’m almost gonna miss your shitty dorm room bed.”

They get up the stairs, Tango shoves him into the wall with his shoulder, Whiskey shoves back, Ford rolls her eyes as they wrestle their way down the hallway, trying to stifle their giggles. They make it back to Whiskey’s room without anyone popping their heads out of their rooms to tell them to shut the fuck up, probably because everone’s already gone home for the year.

“I’m uh, I’m gonna call Kent if you guys want to pick the movie while I’m gone,” Whiskey says.

“You don’t have to go,” Ford says, “I wanna say hi,” she’s sitting on his bed, cross legged, still holding her drink. Tango’s next to her. 

He nods, it’s half a shrug. 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “Uh okay.”

“I mean unless you were planning on being gross, then definitely go to the bathroom,” Ford teases. 

“No,” Whiskey smiles softly, he pulls out his phone and finds Kent’s contact. He hits video chat and sits on the edge of his desk. It’s totally empty now that all of his things are either in the trash or one of two suitcases. 

“Hey,” Kent says. 

“Hey,” Whiskey answers, “Say hi to Tango and Ford,” he turns his phone to face them, they’re sitting on his bed with his laptop waiting for Netflix to load, looking pretty intently at the movie selection. 

“Hey guys, what’s up?” Kent says. 

“I’m drunk!” Ford replies cheerily, holds up her can of seltzer. 

“Well cheers to that,” Kent holds up something that looks like swamp water in a cup and downs a sip. 

Whiskey smiles, Tango and Ford turn their attention back to the laptop. 

“I’m flying back tomorrow but I’m going to try and watch the game when I get home,” Whiskey says. 

“We’ll have to win then,” Kent says. 

“Counting on it.”

“So what’s the movie gonna be?” Kent asks, he repositions himself so that his phone’s balanced on his coffee table and Whiskey can see him holding a playstation controller. 

“Grease!” Tango says excitedly. 

“My mom liked that movie when I was a kid,” Kent says. 

“I played Rizzo in high school,” Ford beams. 

“Oh hell yeah!” Kent says, “That’s gotta be the most fun one, yeah?”

“I had a blast.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Whiskey admits. 

“Then we’ll turn on captions so you can sing along too!” Tango grins. 

“Wait hold on,” Kent says, he gets up, Whiskey hears him wandering around his living room, he sits back down in his armchair, “Okay, tell me when you hit play,” he says. 

One day someone will ask him for the exact moment he knew that he was totally gone for Kent. He’ll tell them about this exact moment. He knew he wanted to kiss Kent that first time they’d hung out and he’d known that he'd kiss him back that day at the pond. He knew that he loved Kent for months but it really solidified on New Years day when he asked him to be his boyfriend. But this is something else entirely, this is the moment he knows. He doesn’t quite believe in soulmates, but if he has one, it’s Kent.

If he had to pick a moment to live in forever, it’s this one. Slightly buzzed, curled up against Ford’s shoulder, listening to his boyfriend hum the chorus of  _ summer love  _ even though he’s in the desert right now and they won’t actually see each other for another week. It’s a strange but no less wonderful form of intimacy, Kent doesn’t have to be here, no one’s making him watch the same movie as three college kids an entire country away, but he’s doing it anyway and that makes Whiskey’s heart flutter more than any grand gesture ever has. 

It’s the little things that get him, good morning texts and planning their futures and finding pictures of Kit waiting for him after he wakes up. It’s falling asleep on facetime and blurting out “God, I love you,” at the weirdest points in their day. It’s Kent telling him to do his homework and him telling Kent to eat his lunch and call his mom. Hockey is so big and unwieldy that for something to be this small feels strange but no less wonderful. 

He likes hockey for all its size and grandeur, the history and the prestige. He likes the idea of an entire game, a full sixty minutes looking down on the entire pad of ice from the ceiling, thinking big picture. But he loves the sound tape makes when he rips it, the thud of a puck against his stick, he loves how seconds stretch at the end of a period, the ring of a hockey puck as it hits the crossbar and goes in. 

He likes the big picture Kent Parson, NHLer, good hair, decent dude, smirks in interviews but otherwise stays quiet. He likes listening to his media availabilities, seeing him laugh with the rookies on AcesTV. He loves Kent Parson when that smirk turns into a smile, when his cowlick sticks up from under his snapback and Whiskey gets to see his hat head briefly as he takes it off to fix it. He loves the way he shoves his shirt sleeves up to his forearms and the way he chews on his thumb but none of his other fingernails. He loves the way Kent’s voice goes soft after midnight even though he lives alone and wouldn’t really wake anyone up. 

His phone vibrates with a text, Kent’s still on the call and he can see him holding his phone like he just finished typing. Ford’s fast asleep and Tango’s absentmindedly running his hands over her shoulder as he watches the last 20 minutes of the movie. 

**KP:** **I didn’t want to wake anyone up or embarass you in front of your friends but i have never been more attracted to you than when you were pretending not to dance to Greased lighting.**

Whiskey blushes, he smiles, he can see Kent looking at him, a shy smile on his face. Whiskey hopes the tenderness he feels translates through the screen. 

**Whiskey:** **> :( I was not dancing**

 **KP:** **It was cute**

 **KP:** **I see u blushing**

 **Whiskey:** **i don’t blush**

It’s a lie that Kent can very clearly see through. 

**KP:** **okay, baby, whatever you say**

He sees the smirk on Kent’s face. 

**Whiskey:** **stop smirking when i’m not there to kiss it off your face**

 **KP:** **promise?**

Kent’s still smirking. 

**Whiskey:** **your trainers will have to physically remove me from you**

 **KP:** **did you figure out your family stuff.**

Kent’s still smiling, gentler now, he watches Whiskey as he types his answer. 

**Whiskey:** **i kind of just told them i was spending the summer with you.**

 **Whiskey:** **they don’t seem stoked about it or anything, but they’re not gonna stop me from doing what i want to do.**

 **KP:** **you’re okay, right?**

He’s looking at Whiskey, he does his best to unfurrow his brow as he nods. 

**KP:** **Good**

 **Whiskey:** **I’m thinking I’ll see my parents for a couple days and then come out before the ECF**

 **KP:** **I love how we measure time in playoff rounds**

 **Whiskey:** **damn we really do**

 **KP:** **boring hockey player ass motherfuckers**

 **Whiskey:** **we really are**

 **KP:** **i can’t wait to see your boring hockey player ass**

 **Whiskey:** **you’re the worst**

 **KP:** **you love me ;)**

 **Whiskey:** **god, fuck, i do, huh?**

 **KP:** **I love you too.**

 **KP:** **go to sleep, jet lag’s a bitch.**

 **Whiskey:** **don’t hang up?**

 **KP:** **okay.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well it's been real, i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i hope you enjoy the next one and i hope you love their tiny love as much as i do <3


	37. You were there just staring at me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story ends with a ferrari, Kit Purrson and some enchiladas  
> and love  
> always love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :")  
> title is from the lonely end of the rink by the tragically hip which is also where the whole title is from

Once upon a time there was a hockey player from a place without ice. A place surrounded by canyon walls and pine forests. A place where the sun was always hot but the wind was always there to dry the sweat off of his brow. The boy traveled to find ice to skate on and for a while things were good. Simple, the hockey player liked it that way. When you asked him who he was, he knew, he was the hockey player. He had a hockey girlfriend and a hockey coach and they went on hockey road trips to his hockey game and he ignored everything that wasn’t hockey, that wasn’t simple.

And you know what happened next. The hockey player found out that you can’t just ignore the parts that are hard, that they exist, in the periphery, even if you pretend not to see. And the hockey player hated that and he raged and he hid and he ran and for a year, he stopped being a hockey player.

But he didn’t know who he was if he wasn’t a hockey player, if he didn’t have his hockey player girlfriend and his hockey games and hockey practices to work for. So he traveled some more, once again, searching for ice. He forgot, this time, though, to search for a team. He thought he could be a hockey player. Singular. That his new team would be temporary. 

And he skated until his feet bled and he tried to keep things simple. Hockey, nothing else. All he knew how to do was play hockey. And then something happened. 

Kent Parson slid into his DMs. 

And the hockey player fell in love, and the hockey player found his friends and they laughed and they cried and they got drunk and they stole traffic cones and watched musical rom-coms from the nineties. They won a championship together and Kent Parson celebrated from a country away, watching  _ his  _ hockey player carry his friends around the ice, the biggest smile he’d ever worn adorning his face.

And the hockey player wasn’t  _ just  _ a hockey player anymore. He was Connor “Whiskey” Whisk. He was Kent Parson’s boyfriend, Tango and Foxtrot’s best friends, Bittle and O’Meara’s liney, the son of two parents stumbling through raising him, the client of a very nice Samwell student wellness centre provided therapist. Bisexual, anxious, stubborn and private, but so fiercely loyal, so willing to love even if he can’t convince himself that he deserves to be loved in return quite yet. Dedicated, driven, maybe even to a fault. Hockey player, yes, but Connor “Whiskey” Whisk found out how to be more than that. How to be complicated and still be okay. 

Whiskey doesn’t cry on the plane. He doesn’t cry until the third night at his parents’ house when his father turns on the Stars at the Aces. It’s game 5, if the Aces win, they end the series. Stephen asks Connor to bring him a beer and grab one for himself. He sits on the couch with his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his forearms. Whiskey sits down next to him. 

There’s a basketball game on tonight too, Stephen always preferred basketball to hockey, but he doesn’t flip the channel even during warmups. His son hands him a beer, keeping one in his hand for himself. They don’t plan it, but the crack and hiss of the cans opening happens at exactly the same time. 

Whiskey laughs, quietly, Stephen cracks a smile. Whiskey’s mother’s in the kitchen finishing the dishes that she insists she doesn’t need help with. Whiskey takes a short sip of his beer. His shoulders are drawn inward, looking dead ahead at the TV. He doesn’t know what he might give away with his face but he keeps it neutral anyway. 

“You know I never understood the whole hockey thing,” Stephen says. The anthems have just finished. 

“I know, dad,” Whiskey says. Stephen’s told him enough. 

“But I always tried, after you started playing. I read Jay’s playbook,” Whiskey hasn’t heard his hockey coach’s name in a long time, and certainly not out of his father’s mouth. It wasn’t something the Whisk family talked about after the funeral. Whiskey didn’t know that. 

“I never knew that.”

“I didn’t want you to think… your mother and I always wanted you to be exactly who you wanted to be and you put so much pressure on yourself already that, well. I don’t know exactly. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

His dad’s not looking at him, Whiskey’s not really looking at his dad either, both of them facing the television. 

“It would have been nice to know,” Whiskey says after a second. Quiet. 

Kent. On the screen, blonde hair sticking up in all directions from his helmet hair. There’s a ceremonial faceoff, the mayor of Las Vegas is about to drop the puck. The Whisk men watch him shake hands and smile, that smile that can charm anyone. He grins at the cameras as she drops the puck. There’s a couple of kids, one of them in a Parson jersey, the other in a Carlson jersey, Kent bends down and wraps his arm around either of their shoulders and grins. Whiskey smiles at his own hands. That’s his boyfriend. 

“He’s a good guy, that Parson,” Stephen clears his throat, takes a sip of his beer, “Good player too. Not that I’d know all that much about that kind of thing.”

Whiskey just nods. 

“I’ve been watching the Aces games. The yotes aren’t going to make the playoffs any time soon so I figured I might as well pick a team in the desert. It’s a good game. Parson plays a good game.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey mumbles. 

Kent hugs the kids and then skates over to the bench. The camera stays on him while he takes a swig out of his water bottle, he’s smiling as he looks over at Swoops and his other lineys. 

“Y’know. I always knew hockey was important to you even if I didn’t understand it. So uh. No matter what, even if I don’t understand the things that are important to you… I’ll uh. I’ll watch them, or be around for them. Okay, Connor.”

“Yeah, dad, uh. Thanks.” Whiskey’s not an idiot, he can read the subtext. The dash of approval, the hint of acceptance

Whiskey and his father sit in silence until the puck drops. Whiskey leans forward, following the puck with his eyes. His father starts to cheer when the Aces’ third line gets a scoring chance and Whiskey’s right there with him. His mother comes to sit down in the armchair. She cheers, arguably louder than his father. When the Aces are up by one in the third period, Stephen acts like he knew that they could do it all along. Kent scores a goal to put them up by two and Stephen whoops. 

“Good hands, good hands,” he says. 

The final goal horn sounds and Stephen punches the arm of the couch triumphantly and whiskey’s standing, he’s been standing since five minutes into the period, too nervous not to rock back and forth on their feet and he punches the air and his father slaps him on the back of the shoulder. 

It’s not perfect, but it’s good. They don’t talk about their feelings but it’s… okay. Whiskey thinks he’ll be okay. He’s an adult and adults have to realize at some point that their parents actually have no idea what their doing, especially about this kind of shit. But his father’s vague approval, and genuine sports-related excitement, the way his mother looks at Kent’s televised image with her head slightly cocked and tells Whiskey he should, “take some enchiladas out of the freezer before he leaves,” because, “the boy looks skinny.” Whiskey thinks that might be enough.

His parents aren’t his friends and they’re not the kind of parents who he tells when something terrible happens to him, not the kind of parents he tells when something wonderful happens either, but he thinks that’s okay now. It sucks, but it’s okay. 

His phone vibrates on the bathroom sink around 11. He’s on the same coast as Kent, he remembers. That feels nice, like there’s one less barrier between them.

**KP:** **I’m picking you up the second you give me the word, baby**

 **Whiskey:** **you know i can drive too, right?**

 **KP:** **okay but i have a nice car and a Kelli Jarry curated playlist of driving songs that I need an excuse to burn through, so. Give me a time.**

 **Whiskey:** **I love you**

 **KP:** **that’s not a time**

 **KP:** **i love you too tho**

 **Whiskey:** **tomorrow**

 **KP:** **god i was hoping you’d say that.**

Whiskey’d been brushing his teeth the whole time, he spits his toothpaste in the sink. It’s not like there’s nothing left for him in Arizona, there’s history here, there’s family here. But Rachel’s gone, in Minnesota for the summer, taking a few extra classes. His best friends are scattered for the summer, his team, his home, all somewhere else. Whiskey’s future is somewhere else. He doesn’t know where that is yet and that’s… scary, but he knows that the immediate future is Vegas, a convertible with Kent, the interstate and some kind of vaguely indie playlist that Kent’s only cool friend has put together with them in mind. He lets his mom know his plans before he lets his father know. 

“Okay, mijo,” she says. She never really speaks spanish in the house, only a few words ever come out and only when she’s feeling really affectionate. 

“You’re always welcome back whenever you want to come back.”

“Thanks mom,” he has to lean down to kiss her cheek. 

“Oh Connor,” she sighs, “there’s a tupperware of enchiladas in the freezer in the basement. I was serious when I said he looks skinny.”

“He’ll love them, I’m sure,” Whiskey says, wraps his arms around his mom’s short sturdy frame. 

Whiskey’s dad just nods, not looking away from the Warriors game when Whiskey leans against the wall and tells him he’s going to be leaving in the afternoon. 

“Drive safe,” he mumbles in the morning as he leaves for work. 

Kent’s 15 minutes later than google maps said he’d be. Whiskey doesn’t panic this time. He sits at the dining table, clenches his fist, unclenches it. One thing he can see, one thing he can feel, one thing he can hear, one thing he knows. He can see the fridge, he can feel the callous on his thumb, hears his mother typing from the upstairs study. Knows Kent loves him. He distracts himself by pulling his phone out of his pocket, he thumbs at Kent’s contact information, bites his lip and hits the edit button.  _ Baby <3,  _ he types first. No, that’s fucking obnoxious, he decides.  _ Kent,  _ he types, simply. He smiles. His phone vibrates in his hand. 

**Kent:** **I’m in ur driveway**

Whiskey’s face lights up

**Whiskey:** **i’ll be right out.**

He leans on the doorframe of his mother’s office, raps his knuckles gently against the wood. 

“Kent’s here,” he mutters. 

“Oh!” She says, “oh okay. Yeah,” she stands up, “Hold on,” she tucks her chair in, heads to the kitchen, opens the fridge. She hands Whiskey a tupperware. He tucks it into his duffel bag and kisses her cheek. She hugs him tight, arms squeezing his torso. 

“Love you,” she says. 

“Love you too,” Whiskey says back. 

His mother doesn’t stand on the porch to wave goodbye, and that suits Whiskey just fine, because as soon as he throws his bag into the backseat and slides into the passenger seat, he’s steeling a kiss. Hand on the back of Kent’s neck, craning over the centre console. 

“Happy to come collect you,” Kent says after their lips part. 

“Happy to be collected,” Whiskey grins. 

“I missed you,” Kent says.

“You’re gonna be sick of me in a week,” Whiskey says. 

“I doubt it.”

Whiskey kisses the back of his neck one more time. Kent takes the sunglasses out of the pocket of his short sleeved button down and puts them over his eyes. He adjusts his snapback and backs out of Whiskey’s driveway. Whiskey takes a last look at the house. Beige, blocky, he grew up here. It doesn’t feel like his anymore. He wonders where home is. It felt like his dorm room for a while, and maybe Faber, he thinks it might become the Haus. But right now everything’s in transition. He’s not a child, his home isn’t his parents’ house, but he’s not yet an adult, he doesn’t have his own house, he barenly has his own room. 

He catches Kent looking over at him. Home’s somewhere behind Kent’s eyes, Whiskey thinks. 

Whiskey closes his eyes and leans back against the leather seat. Kent’s phone is plugged into the aux port, a playlist called, “Kent Parson collect your man,” is playing. It has Kelli written all over it. 

“Nursey listens to this kind of stuff,” Whiskey says out loud, listening to something vaguely electronic yet gently acoustic at the same time. It’s the kind of song that sounds like it should be in a movie.

“Nursey?”

“He’s one of our D-men.”

“Ah. Yeah, Kelli likes to make playlists. She reviews bands when she has time, but because of Swoops’ career she can’t really tie down anything solid, so she blogs about it. Goes to gigs though. She’d make you one if you asked.”

Whiskey thinks he might. 

“She knows how to set a mood.”

“What’s the mood”

“I’m really happy,” Whiskey says. 

Kent merges into traffic and speeds up as they hit the interstate. Whiskey feels wind in his hair. 

“And I’m confused, and a little bit sad but mostly really really happy to be sitting next to you,” Whiskey continues. 

“I’d kiss you if I wasn’t driving.”

There aren’t many cars on the road between Arizona and Nevada, the sun’s beating down on them but the music’s loud and Whiskey’s relaxed and leaning back in his seat and he scrolls through Kent’s spotify library, queuing up music that Kent will sing along to, Whiskey knows he’ll be convinced to join in by the second chorus. The wind’s in his hair and the world is slightly turned down by the red tint of his sunglasses. The canyons of his hometown slowly give way to flatter ground.

He looks over at Kent and Kent’s moving his head along with the music, he looks at the speedometer and sees that Kent’s going exactly the speed limit. He takes one hand off the steering while and reaches over to hold Whiskey’s hand. He knows that Kent doesn’t get to be 100 per cent himself often, if ever. He looks over at him again, sunglasses, hair poking out of the front of his hat, singing Kelly Clarkson at the top of his lungs. Whiskey squeezes his hand, he’s been singing too, badly and off key, but he knows the words because everyone knows the words to Since U Been Gone. 

Whiskey must tell Kent that he loves him a hundred times on the drive from Sedona to Vegas, and Kent looks at him with an expression that melts Whiskey’s heart every time. And they’re kissing in the parking garage, Whiskey takes Kent’s hat off in the elevator so he can run his hands through his hair. It’s sweaty and greasy with sweat but Whiskey still wants to lose himself in it, pressed against his lips. 

They don’t hold hands until the elevator opens to Kent’s floor. He doesn’t hold Kent’s hand in the hallway but his shoulders brush up against Kent’s as Kent unlocks the door. He slips his hand into his boyfriend’s as they walk inside. The air conditioning hits him, Kit hits him next. She comes bounding down the hallway, knocks her head against Whiskey’s calf until he bends down to scratch between her ears. 

“Uh. I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do, but you can put your things in the guest room or in my room… whatever you want,” Kent says. 

How he still gets so nervous, Whiskey thinks, he’ll never understand. 

“Your room,” Whiskey straightens up to kiss him. 

Kent’s worried expression breaks into a soft smile. 

“Okay good,” Kent says, “I’m glad you’re uh… comfortable with that.”

Whiskey takes both of his boyfriends hands in his, “I’m more than comfortable with that,” he pulls him down the hallway, backs himself up against Kent’s bedroom door. 

Kent’s lips hover just in front of his mouth, 

“Connor,” Kent mutters. 

“Kent,” Whiskey says, his breath comes out hot against Kent’s mouth. 

And their lips come crashing together. A month. It’s been almost a month and that doesn’t seem like that long in the grand scheme of things, but going a month without kissing Kent has been an ordeal. He’s going to make up for lost time. He licks into Kent’s mouth, he likes it when he calls him, “Connor,” no one else calls him that unless they’re being serious. But he likes it better when Kent calls him, 

“Baby,” he’s breathing into Whiskey’s mouth, his thigh in between Whiskey’s legs. 

Kent opens the door. Whiskey stumbles, losing his balance, his hand is clutching at Kent’s shirt and they both fall to the ground. Neither one of them wants to take the time to get up so Kent just keeps kissing him right there on the hardwood floor. 

When you can laugh while your kissing someone, Whiskey thinks, that’s how you know it’s something good. He’s laughing the whole time Kent’s on top of him, he’s laughing when he picks Kent up and throws him into bed, he laughs when he jumps in next to him, laughs as they take of their clothes. He’s just  _ giddy, _ he’s here, they’re here. They’re together. 

The sex is,  _ really  _ good, it’s always good, but the build up, the sheer amount of wanting between the two of them makes it that much better. 

He’s wearing one of Kent’s sweaters, it has his name and his number on the sleeve and that makes Whiskey soft in a new kind of way. He’s leaning against Kent on the couch, a plate of his mom’s enchiladas is on his lap, Kent’s hands are in his hair. They’re watching the Canucks game but the volume is on low. Kit’s laying at Whiskey’s feet. 

“So,” Kent says, his hand still gently ghosting through Whiskey’s hair, “If we play the Canucks do I have to keep you away from Pettersson?”

“Tango,” Whiskey curses. 

Kent leans over to kiss Whiskey’s forehead. 

“Ford,” Kent smirks, correcting him. 

“I can’t tell those two anything,” he groans. 

“Not a bad dude to pick,” Kent shrugs. 

“Everyone was talking about which athlete they’d be a trophy husband for… wife for Ford… but y’know. I couldn’t really say you.”

“Hmmm, okay,” Kent teases. 

“Shut up,” Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“Listen,” Kent throws his hands up, “I get it. He’s an objectively attractive man.”

Whiskey smiles, “You pick one,” Whiskey says. 

“Hmm?” Kent’s hands still in Whiskey’s hair. 

“You retire tomorrow, you get to pick on pro athlete to trophy husband for.”

“You need to hurry up and go pro, then,” Kent teases. 

“Pick one,” Whiskey elbows him.

“This isn’t fair,I know most of those dudes.”

“Pick one.”

“Snow?” He says, “Yeah, Snow.” He nods. 

“Okay, solid choice, but just so we’re clear, this is not a hall pass.”

“I would never,” Kent kisses the top of Whiskey’s head. 

“Didn’t you crash Snowy’s net and that’s why the Falcs hate you?”

“I’m sure there are a bunch of reasons they hate me, but yeah, that’s one of them.”

There’s a silence, a pause in the conversation, “I’m trying to make less enemies,:”

Kent says

Whiskey picks up a forkful of enchilada and pops it in Kent’s mouth. 

‘Mmm,” he says. 

Whiskey’s packing up leftovers after the game, the kitchen’s dark, Kent’s supposed to be getting ready for bed. Whiskey opens the fridge, it’s the only source of light other than the moonlight pouring in through the windows in the living room. 

He feels Kent’s arms wrap around his waist, his head rests against Whiskey’s back, nuzzling at the fabric of his own sweater. Whiskey turns around, refrigerator forgotten but still open. He rests his chin on Kent’s shoulder, tucking his head into the crook of his neck.

Neither one of them has to say anything. There’s no room between them. This is the thing Whiskey’s missed the most about Kent. 

There are so many things he can say to Kent. 

I love you. Thank you. I never want to let go of you. You’re beautiful. You deserve this. We deserve this. I love you. I love you. I love you. Thank you for sliding into my DMs in September and sending me videos of your cat and listening. Thank you for being the first person I came out to, thank you for kissing me and letting me kiss you back. Thank you for driving cross a state border to climb into my childhood bedroom and spoon me because I was kind of sad. Thank you for never lying to me, thank you for telling me you love me first. I love you. I love it when I hold your hand and you run your thumb over my knuckles. I love the way your breath hitches when my hands touch your belt. I love your ass. I love your lips. I love the fact that you love me. I love that you know all the words to Kelly Clarkson’s newest album and I love that you love my friends. 

He doesn’t say that out loud, face buried in Kent’s neck, rocking slowly in the kitchen, spinning in the refrigerator light. Feeling small, feeling safe. The NCAA championship is so far away, the Stanley Cup is so far away. Whiskey won, Kent might win, but that doesn’t matter. That feels so far away. All that matters is Kent and the approximately zero inches of space between them. 

They live lives that are big, complicated, sometimes stupidly so. They brave skate blades and bruises and broken bones. They know that they risk serious injury every time they step onto the ice and they do it anyway. They signed up to have their lives picked apart by the press, have their bodies broken by the game and their hearts broken by the pressure. It’s all so big. 

But Kent’s small. Kent’s here, Kent’s sturdy and solid and it’s not like Kent’s the only thing Whiskey needs but sometimes Whiskey thinks he’s the most important. 

He spent a school year agonizing over his complications, his feelings, the tightness in his chest and the voice telling him he’d never be good enough. And he’d tried to fix it, but that still felt complicated. And he still thinks about how big everything is, how much bigger and more complicated it’s going to get. 

But Kent smells like fabric conditioner and he’s dancing with him to no music, just the gentle hum of a refrigerator, the occasional clunk of his ice maker. The press of his lips against Whiskey’s chest. Small, important. 

His hands rub circles over Kent’s back, feeling the muscle under his white t-shirt. 

“Your hands are sick,” Kent says. Whiskey had the DM memorized. That’s the second thing Kent ever said to him. 

“Things went my way,” Whiskey says, not quite what he’d said to Kent that first conversation, but close. 

Kit saunters into the kitchen, Whiskey feels her nudging against Whiskey’s legs, settling between them. 

They laugh. 

“You can dance with us,” Kent says to her.

Home might not be a place. Home might not even be a person. But it’s this feeling. And it’s not a dream anymore. 

Once upon a time, Kent Parson loved Connor Whisk, and Connor Whisk loved him back. And he kept loving him back. 

Hockey's big. Love is small. That's okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!  
> Uhhh, thanks for everyone who read this, who commented, who left kudos. You've all been so lovely and so encouraging of this (tbh) really weird rare pair idea that I had one day. I never intended for this to get so long but I really loved these characters and all of their awkwardness and stupidity and softness and love. I hope that I made you smile at some point in this.   
> Once again thank you! to everyone who supported me, your feedback meant the world to me.  
> I am still Whiskey/Kent trash #1 so don't expect this to be the end, I'm probably going to create a series and write things in this general "whiskey and kent fell in love because he slid into his DMs" universe so you can look forward to that!   
> I loved writing the big moments, but the small moments always felt more profound to me. Sometimes dancing with your boyfriend in the kitchen is better than a stanley cup parade. 
> 
> Okay that's enough, much love! i hope i've created more Whiskey/Kent fans in this process

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Plant and Breakfast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26052799) by [Ymax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ymax/pseuds/Ymax)




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